


Together but Sometimes Apart

by pepperlandgirl4



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperlandgirl4/pseuds/pepperlandgirl4
Summary: They had been brave all day, watching with blank, neutral faces as King Arthur wed Guinevere. Merlin had known Lancelot wouldn’t do anything as unbecoming as shed tears in open court, but he didn’t have so much faith in his own ability to mask his emotions.





	1. Chapter 1

They left the feast together, clinging to each other in an open, desperate way, past the point of caring who saw. They had been brave all day, watching with blank, neutral faces as King Arthur wed Guinevere. Merlin had known Lancelot wouldn’t do anything as unbecoming as shed tears in open court, but he didn’t have so much faith in his own ability to mask his emotions. So he had muttered a spell, blocking the tears from falling, numbing the pain in his chest. Later that night, he’d mentioned it to Lancelot and Lancelot had laughed without humor, pushing a goblet towards him. 

“The rest of us make do with that,” he said. 

So Merlin drank, keeping up with Lancelot even though he’d never been a good drinker. At one point, Lancelot took him by the arm, and something about his touch startled Merlin. He looked down at Lancelot’s long fingers, holding him gently but firmly, and realized that the stupid fantasy he’d nursed in the back of his mind since his arrival in Camelot was finally dead. Arthur was never going to look at him the way he looked at Gwen, and Arthur was never going to be able to return the love Merlin had nourished and secretly encouraged. So he didn’t pull away from Lancelot (and he didn’t think about which dreams of Lancelot’s had just perished). 

They agreed to go to Lancelot’s without speaking. They both wanted to be as far away from the castle as possible, and Lancelot had a small home in the lower town. Merlin had only been there once before, but he remembered it being surprisingly clean and orderly for a knight’s abode. The bed was just big enough for the two of them, and they fell against the hard mattress (so unlike what Merlin had grown accustomed to in Arthur’s castle) before their clothes were off. Lancelot’s mouth was desperate but tentative, every kiss a question, a hint of something more just beneath the surface. Merlin turned his mind away from comparisons, not thinking of Lancelot’s lips in terms of _too_ (too big, too small, too soft, too smooth), but focusing on the little details, committing each one to memory. 

Lancelot didn’t speak. There were no whispered endearments or encouragement or instructions. Arthur had always been very vocal, and Merlin told himself he had no preferences even though his ears were straining for any whisper, any whimper, no matter how small. They might have kissed for hours, Lancelot’s tongue invading his mouth again and again. He turned Merlin onto the mattress, pinning him beneath his body, catching his wrists and holding them above Merlin’s head. Merlin lifted his hips when he felt Lancelot’s hand between their bodies, felt the tight fist he made around Merlin’s soft cock. 

In less than a minute, he was hard. Lancelot was touching him with his sword hand, and the strength in his fingers was almost enough to hurt. Merlin writhed and rocked, wantonly grinding himself against Lancelot, but never tried to take control. He let Lancelot move in his own time, exploring Merlin like this meant something, like this _counted_. Merlin didn’t know if it did. They were both drunk enough that it shouldn’t. But Lancelot was thoughtful, attentive, careful by nature, and he found the spots that made Merlin tremble. 

By the time he felt Lancelot’s cock sliding against his, Merlin’s blood was burning. He could feel the magic building within him, singing joyfully, begging for a chance to be a part of this. Merlin forced it back out of habit, stifling it until it hurt. Publically, Arthur supported magic and Merlin’s place in court. Merlin knew that Arthur would never change his mind or declare open season on sorcerers. Arthur even acknowledged that there were times when magic was useful and necessary for Albion. But Arthur was never truly _comfortable_ with Merlin’s magic, and certainly never liked to see it when they were intimate. 

“Lancelot…” 

“What?” 

“Can I…I need to…” 

Lancelot lifted his head and looked down at him. His dark eyes were hooded, and for the first time that night, his mouth wasn’t drawn to an absent frown. “What, Merlin?” 

“My magic,” Merlin said, unsure of what else to say. 

“Oh. Anything you need, Merlin.” 

Merlin gasped and the energy seemed to spike. His body sizzled with it. “You sure?” 

“Yes, yes, of course.” 

Merlin slid his hand down Lancelot’s body and gripped his thick cock. He was hard—harder even than Merlin—and his head was already slick. Merlin wiped his thumb over the tip and Lancelot caught his bottom lip between his teeth, dropping his head and letting his hair shield his face from view. Merlin did it again with a bit more pressure and Lancelot jerked his hips. Merlin’s other hand went to the back of Lancelot’s head, twining around his hair. He pulled on it, forcing Lancelot to look up, to look at him. Slowly—glacially—Merlin dragged his palm down Lancelot’s shaft, gave him a gentle squeeze, and moved back up. When he reached the tip again, his eyes glowed golden, and Lancelot’s back arched sharply. 

“Merlin…what…” 

“Shh.” 

He tested Lancelot again, releasing just a tiny amount of his magic, letting it slowly seep into Lancelot’s skin. The knight trembled in response, his eyes going glassy as his pupils widened. Merlin made his choice and let all the barricades fall, unleashing the magic, knowing he needed to be free. He needed this to be different. 

And it was. He felt a deeper physical connection to Lancelot’s body, attuned to the rhythm of his heart and the thrumming of his blood. It was different when Lancelot spread Merlin wide and worked his way into Merlin’s passage, taking his time with each inch until Merlin was weak. Undone. He closed his eyes as the final wave of pleasure crashed through him, and Lancelot buried his face in Merlin’s neck, both slick and flushed and gulping in ragged breaths. 

Merlin didn’t feel like he could move and Lancelot didn’t ask him to. They fit against each other on the narrow mattress, and Merlin remembered the tiny cot he used to sleep on in Gaius’ room. It had been so long since he was in such a lowly position, but it felt good. Nicely familiar and secure. His bed in the castle always felt like it was a bit too big and a bit too soft and the right side was always cold. 

“I planned to leave on the morrow.” 

“For how long?” Merlin asked, curious, a little jealous of Lancelot’s mobility. 

“I requested a patrol that would take me to eastern Albion. I might be gone for four weeks.” 

“That’ll be good for you.” 

“I was thinking…I don’t have to go.” 

“No, you should.” 

“Maybe you could come with me.” 

Merlin’s heart twisted. He knew why Lancelot was offering. Not because of his own needs, but because Merlin was his friend and he cared about him. “No, no, I can’t leave. Arthur needs me.” 

“If Arthur would ask you to stay right now, he’s not as good as I thought.” 

Merlin stiffened automatically, prepared to defend Arthur against any slight, real or imagined. “Of course, he won’t make me stay if I wished to leave. But…if I go, it might be too hard for me to come back right now.” 

Lancelot sighed. “Yes, I have the same fear.” 

“I hope you decide to come back,” Merlin whispered, glad Lancelot couldn’t see his face. Now he was just being selfish—more selfish. More selfish than he’d been when he kissed Lancelot just because the ale was wearing off. 

“I do intend to.” 

“I know.” 

“You can stay, you know, if you are comfortable.” 

That was when Merlin realized that this probably did count. Four weeks apart would probably be a good thing for them, but Merlin knew he’d be lonely. He was feeling morose, and couldn’t help but think he was losing his last friend. Shut out of Arthur’s personal life, no longer held within Gwen’s confidence, and now he wouldn’t even have Lancelot to talk to. Merlin closed his eyes, and Lancelot held him so he couldn’t toss and turn and fidget. 

#

Lancelot came back after eighteen days. Arthur heard of his return and requested an audience with him within hours of his arrival. Merlin was present for Lancelot’s report, but their gazes never met. Arthur questioned Lancelot for nearly an hour, committing each detail to memory while the scribes carefully wrote everything down. In the end, Lancelot’s report came down to a reassurance that the area was thriving and peaceful. Like so many other parts of Albion since the beginning of Arthur’s reign. It was amazingly easy to keep the roads free of bandits if the king’s men weren’t distracted by hunting druid children. 

Arthur excused Lancelot and Merlin wished he could follow him. But Arthur might have noticed that the two of them had left the feast together, and he would definitely be suspicious if Merlin excused himself to chase Lancelot down. 

It didn’t matter what Arthur thought anymore. 

Merlin still didn’t follow Lancelot. 

“Make sure he’s given a proper rest before he’s sent out on another patrol,” Arthur said to Leon. “Gwen thinks…” Arthur paused and cleared his throat. “What’s left on the agenda this afternoon?” 

_Gwen thinks what_ Merlin thought sourly. He could just imagine Gwen casually mentioning her concern for Lancelot, and Arthur nodding because Lancelot really did have the habit of pushing himself too hard, of demanding too much of himself. Lancelot was the Round Table’s best knight, and Arthur always took special care of his knights. 

“Merlin.” 

“Sire?” 

“Has there been any news of Morgana?” 

Merlin swallowed. “No, sire. I’ve sent out another scouting party, but they’ve seen no sign of her.” Of course, Arthur knew that because Arthur knew Merlin would tell him the second they had any information regarding Morgana. 

“I want her found, Merlin.” 

“Yes, sire, and she will be.” 

“You’ve been saying that for over a year now,” Arthur said tightly. 

“I know how long it’s been.” Arthur had began searching for Morgana the same day he announced his intention got marry Guinevere. Merlin didn’t know if the two decisions were related, but they were forever linked in his memory, feelings of disgust and apprehension and jealousy and betrayal threading together in a tightening web. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t doing his best. 

“You never were very good at hunting.” 

“It’s more difficult when your quarry has no wish to be found.” 

Arthur tensed. “Morgana was taken from Camelot. Of course she wishes to be found.” 

Merlin strongly disagreed on that point, but now wasn’t the time to argue with Arthur over it. He knew when to pick his battles, and this was not something he cared to fight about. It was of little consequence to him if Arthur wanted him to send out small scouting parties looking for any sign of his former sister. 

“Of course, your majesty.”

Arthur frowned at that, but directed the meeting forward and Merlin only had to sit still and keep his mouth shut for another twenty minutes. When Arthur finally excused them, Merlin was nearly the first one out of the door. Lancelot was heavy on his mind, and Merlin didn’t quite know why. It wasn’t the sex. Well, it wasn’t _just_ the sex. Merlin could have found a willing partner easily enough while Lancelot was out on patrol, but he hadn’t felt any desire to. 

He didn’t expect to find Lancelot right away, but the knight was just in the courtyard, seemingly waiting for him. Merlin stopped in his tracks when he saw Lancelot, and this all felt very wrong. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching from the window (and of course Arthur wasn’t watching them from the window). They weren’t made for each other. A thought Merlin forgot about when Lancelot smiled at him. 

“I trust I did not keep you waiting too long.” 

Merlin returned his smile. “I thought you would be gone for another two weeks.” 

“I planned to be, but I found that I am not very good company. I missed talking to somebody more intelligent than myself.”

Merlin laughed softly. “Would you like help with your armor?” 

“I believe it is far below the court sorcerer’s station to help a humble knight out of his armor.” 

“I won’t tell anybody if you won’t.” 

Lancelot nodded. “I’ll guard your secret to the grave.” 

That’s how they ended up in Lancelot’s little house again and Lancelot’s narrow bed. This time, Merlin straddled Lancelot, kissing the frustration and hurt out. It felt good to direct his energy towards something besides nursing his broken heart and resenting Arthur. Like this was more positive and better for Merlin’s mental health. Lancelot was strong beneath him, his trim body tight, his muscles compact. Merlin pushed the hair away from his face and dragged his tongue over Lancelot’s beard. He liked the rough texture of his whiskers, though he knew his mouth and chin would be irritated red the next day. 

Lancelot bit across his collar bone and closed his teeth over Merlin’s Adam’s apple. It hurt, and his flesh stung from the pain, but Merlin didn’t pull away. He wanted to see the marks on his throat. They would offset the red of the whisker burn, and if it really was important to keep anybody from seeing the evidence of his time with Lancelot, he could magic the bruises away (the thought sent echoes of an old fight with Arthur rippling through his mind and Merlin kissed Lancelot with renewed vigor to block it out).

Merlin didn’t get Lancelot’s breeches all the way down his legs. They stopped at his knees, but that’s enough. Merlin spit into his palm and slicked Lancelot’s cock, spreading the pre-come across his velvety tip. Lancelot didn’t smell the same as he did after the feast—he smelled musky and dirty and a bit sour from the long ride back to Camelot. Merlin took deep breath after deep breath, relishing the fragrance of sun and hard work and sweat. He’d always loved the smell of a sweaty body under too much armor. It triggered something buried deep inside of him, made him eager and ravenous (Arthur had heartily approved of that since Merlin’s hunger often matched his raging lust after a good, hard fight). 

With Lancelot’s cock slick, Merlin shifted his position and pushed himself up on his knees. Lancelot watched him. He never _stopped_ watching. Merlin wished he could see what was going behind Lancelot’s eyes, but at the same time, he was glad he couldn’t see or hear the thoughts of Gwen. It was bad enough when he’d kiss Arthur and know-- _know_ deep in his chest—that Arthur was imagining softer, sweeter lips. Merlin wasn’t eager to relive that paralyzing sense of rejection, so he shoved Gwen aside and convinced himself that when Lancelot looked at Merlin he was thinking of Merlin as well. 

Merlin guided Lancelot’s head to his opening. He hadn’t taken the time to prepare himself, though he could with a simple word. He didn’t want this to be smooth and easy. He wanted it to hurt a little bit. 

It hurt a lot. 

It hurt until Merlin was fully seated, Lancelot’s cock buried deep inside of him, throbbing and twitching against his walls. It hurt until Merlin started to move. It hurt until he braced himself against Lancelot’s chest and began to move, rocking harder and harder until he was fucking himself on Lancelot’s cock. Lancelot gripped his hips with large hands (just rough enough just strong enough so good) and braced his feet against the mattress. There was nothing gentle about this, nothing awkward, fumbling or drunk. 

“Merlin…Merlin…I’m close…” 

“Don’t, not yet. Please. I need…” 

“Do something,” Lancelot choked out. “To stop it. I don’t care.” 

Merlin squeezed around Lancelot’s shaft and spoke a single word. It would be enough to stop Lancelot from reaching his climax, and the enchantment would break as soon as Merlin found his release. Merlin was almost violent, but Lancelot matched him thrust for thrust, his muscled body gleaming in the candlelight. Lancelot wouldn’t break any time soon. Even after traveling so hard, he had energy to spare. Merlin thought that perhaps he would always be attracted to knights, to their strength and their speed and the perfect definition of their hips and thighs and flat stomachs. 

Merlin fucked himself until the muscles in his abdomen were sore and his legs were watery. He gripped his cock and a single stroke was enough to push him over the edge. He clamped around Lancelot’s shaft, body convulsing as long strings of come painted Lancelot’s chest. Lancelot’s shout echoed in his ears as his hot seed filled Merlin, and they collapsed together, winded and bruised. 

#

Arthur had once been in the habit of leaving Camelot’s walls every chance he got. He happily accepted assignments for patrol, investigated rumors and unverifiable reports of bandits, led large hunts through the forest, and even ran away on occasion. Merlin had nearly always accompanied him on these journeys, and he never realized how much he appreciated that time with Arthur until Arthur became king and his ability to flee the fortress was severely curtailed. Merlin was certain that at times when Arthur looked at Lancelot with strange jealousy and longing, he was not thinking of Guinevere, but rather Lancelot’s ability to get away from it all. 

At other times, Merlin was sure Arthur was just full of spite. No matter how great or small the problem, if it required more than a day’s journey from Camelot, Arthur often assigned the task to Lancelot. It was a great honor for Lancelot to regularly lead the knights, and some might even view it as a reward, leaving many of the servants to wonder what game Arthur was playing at. Including Merlin, who was often the one punished by Arthur sending Lancelot away. Which was why Merlin volunteered to join Lancelot when his assigned patrol would take him through Ealdor. Arthur granted his permission without questioning Merlin, and the sorcerer had honestly believed it would be that easy. 

Until Merlin went to meet Lancelot and two other knights in the courtyard and found Arthur waiting for him instead. 

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, too surprised to be polite. 

Arthur scowled. “This is a matter of concern for all of Camelot.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“The reports said the raiders were wearing Bayard’s colors.” 

“So?” 

“So they might be his men.” 

“They’re not his men, Arthur. Because he doesn’t have men anymore. He doesn’t have anything anymore.” 

“It’s best to keep a vigilant eye,” Arthur said. 

“Yes, and that’s why you’re sending Lancelot. Nobody thinks you’re less than vigilant.” 

“It matters to me,” Arthur retorted tightly, allowing a little of his imperial mask to slip. For the first time in months, Merlin caught a glimpse of the man he used to know. “Ealdor matters to me.” 

Once, when Merlin was still impossibly young, he would have taken that declaration to mean _You, Merlin, matter to me_. But now he knew better because Ealdor wasn’t just the village where Hunith lived and raised Merlin. It was where Albion had been born. The first place Arthur had claimed in the name of Camelot. There hadn’t even been a fight to win the village, but it’d still been significant. (Merlin had been there the day Arthur boldly made his claim and he had thought maybe, maybe Arthur really did care about him). 

Arthur rode out at the head of the line, and Merlin had naturally taken his place beside Arthur. Neither one of them thought about it or discussed it. Merlin didn’t even realize what he’d done until he glanced over his shoulder to see Lancelot watching him with a vaguely wounded expression. Arthur wouldn’t have said anything if Merlin slowed his horse and dropped back to talk to Lancelot. A few words would have put Lancelot at ease. Merlin turned away from Lancelot and asked Arthur about the crops in the far north of Albion and whether Arthur thought they would need to send additional supplies to the villages that were always hit hardest by the winter. 

Arthur didn’t seem to be in a big hurry, and while they could have pushed to reach Ealdor that night, Arthur called a halt soon after dusk. The days were getting shorter, and while the temperatures were still perfectly moderate during the day, a chill set in after the sun disappeared. Merlin had grown up in a very uncomfortable hut that could never quite stay warm, and he recognized the chill for what it was. He shivered at the thought of the oncoming winter, pulling his blanket tight around his shoulders and shifting closer to the fire. 

“What is it?” Arthur asked. “Are you cold?” 

“A little.” 

“I didn’t think it was too bad out here tonight.” 

“Winter is coming,” Merlin said, concentrating on the flames. 

“All the more reason to make sure Ealdor is secure.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Did you send word to your mother?” 

“Yes, she knows we’re on our way.” 

“Good. The queen has included several tokens for Hunith. She’s sorry she couldn’t make the journey herself.” 

_The queen._ Merlin didn’t know if Arthur did that on purpose. She wasn’t _Gwen_ anymore. She wasn’t Merlin’s friend. She wasn’t the sweet servant girl Merlin still remembered with so much fondness. She was Arthur’s wife and she had duties and responsibilities that went well beyond what had been expected of her when she was barely more than a child. The queen, indeed. 

“Mother will be honored by the queen’s generosity.” 

“Merlin.” 

Merlin obediently looked up to meet the king’s gaze. He wasn’t sure if it was the angle of the shadows or the dimness of the light, but Arthur suddenly looked very young and very tired. His face was too open, and he wasn’t frowning with concentration of wearing the mask of the king. He was vulnerable and open in a way that Merlin would have interpreted as an invitation Before. An invitation to question him, to pry, to comfort him, to bully and coax, because sometimes Arthur couldn’t process his emotions without a little bit of help. 

“Arthur.” 

“I thought we could…”

Merlin yawned widely. “I think I’m going to turn in, sire.” 

“What? Already?” 

“Yes. It’s been a long day. And I want to sleep.” 

“Merlin, please, I…” Arthur looked away and his face hardened. “Goodnight, Merlin.” 

Merlin settled as far from Arthur as he could, putting the fire between them, adding a physical barrier to the obstacles keeping them apart. He pretended to sleep, but he was aware of Arthur staying up by the fire well into second watch. He was aware of Lancelot putting his bedroll down beside him, and he didn’t push away the possessive arm around his stomach. 

“Are you asleep?” Lancelot murmured into his ear. 

Merlin shook his head. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Is Arthur asleep?” The words were little more than a breath. 

“Yes.” 

Merlin slid back, pushing his ass against Lancelot’s crotch. He fit snugly there, and he forced his breathing to slow. He clasped Lancelot’s fingers, moving his thumb back and forth over the knuckles, and wished he could explain. It _hurt_ to know Arthur still needed something from him, even if he didn’t want it. It hurt even more to know he couldn’t do anything about it. Merlin once had a place in Arthur’s life and now he only had a place in Arthur’s court. It hadn’t been Merlin’s choice, it wasn’t fair for Merlin to be punished for it now. 

Lancelot slid his hand beneath Merlin’s shift, his palm moving up and down Merlin’s ribs in surprisingly soothing strokes. When he began to drift lower, Merlin relaxed against Lancelot’s chest. He closed his eyes as the now-familiar fingers curled around his shaft. Lancelot didn’t hold him too tight, and he didn’t move too fast or with any particular purpose. He wouldn’t even let Merlin return the favor. He just held Merlin and stroked him until Merlin shuddered and spilled himself into Lancelot’s hand. 

#

Three days after they return from Ealdor, Arthur requested Merlin’s presence in his private chambers. Merlin hadn’t been invited there for any reason after the wedding, and as the door closes behind him, his eyes search for any sign of change. He expected to see Guinevere’s stamp all over the room, but nothing had changed. Even Arthur was sitting sprawled in his favorite chair like he expected Merlin to serve him dinner. Merlin wanted to hover near the door, but he wasn’t a manservant anymore, so he took the seat across from Arthur. 

“Have you been sleeping?” Merlin asked, and that wasn’t what he intended to say at all. But old habits were difficult to break, and Arthur didn’t look well. 

“Of course. Have you?” 

Merlin blinked at the blunt question. “Yes.” 

“I was curious because you haven’t been in your chambers at all this week. I thought you have must been quite hard at work.” 

“Is that what you thought,” Merlin said mildly. 

“There’s a rumor that you were at Lancelot’s.” 

“I didn’t realize you listened to court gossip, your majesty.” 

“I do when there’s an air of truth to it.” 

Merlin sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t there to speak to the king, apparently. He was there to speak to Arthur. And Arthur wanted to speak to Merlin. He could see it in Arthur’s eyes and his pinched mouth. _Why are you doing this, Arthur? Why do you want to do this now?_

“Yes, I’ve been spending my evenings with Lancelot. I didn’t realize this was any of your business.” 

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “Do you think that’s wise?” 

“You’ve seen what a strong knight Lancelot is. I doubt there’s a safer place in all of Camelot.” 

“That’s _not_ what I meant.” 

“It doesn’t matter what you meant, Arthur.” 

“You know he doesn’t love you.” 

Merlin sucked his breath in sharply, stunned by Arthur’s cruelty. He pushed himself to his feet slowly, knowing this meeting wasn’t done until Arthur said so, but equally certain he wouldn’t be staying for another minute. 

“Yes, Arthur, I’m fully aware that as long as Gwen draws breath, the best I can ever hope for is to place second in…anybody’s affections. I wasn’t aware that meant I needed to be lonely for the rest of my life.” 

“I didn’t mean...I just don’t want to see you hurt.” 

“Hurt?” The worst part was, Arthur meant it. He was being sincere. “I’ve been hurt, Arthur. Lancelot isn’t capable of inflicting that sort of damage.” 

“Merlin…” 

“Don’t do this again.” Merlin stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. “You sent me away first.” 

He stomped out of the room, all righteous fury and hurt feelings. It sustained him as far as his own chambers, but as soon as he was in the sanctuary of his own room, the energy drained from him. How could Arthur do that to him? How could he call Merlin into his room ( _their_ room) and chastise him? Make him feel guilty? How could Arthur remind him that he just wasn’t quite good enough for anybody? 

Merlin still loved Gwen. Even after everything, he loved her as a friend, and he couldn’t begrudge her Arthur’s love or Albion. But he resented her, too. Resented her because she had been Arthur’s first choice even after Merlin had given him everything. Arthur had stood in the room that the two of them had shared since Uther’s death and calmly informed him that all of his belongings had been moved. There was no warning or explanation. No time for discussion or pleading. Arthur had made his mind up, and once he decided he was done with Merlin, that was it. With his heart ripped out and his head throbbing, Merlin had never felt more alone in his life. 

But he had stayed in Camelot out of loyalty, saving his angry tears for night, when he was left alone in the room he never wanted. Before Arthur had been his lover, he’d been his master, and after Arthur kicked him out of their room, he’d still been Merlin’s king. So Merlin had stayed, and didn’t think about the possibilities outside of Camelot. He suspected if he tried to leave, somebody would stop him, some emergency would stop him, some crises. Some reminder. The wedding drew closer as Arthur’s power extended, and at some point, Merlin realized he probably could leave, but only if he intended to make his exile permanent. 

How had Lancelot dragged himself back to Camelot? How deep did he have to go to find that strength? 

Maybe it was easier for Lancelot that he didn’t have to see Gwen every day. Gwen would never summon Lancelot to her private quarters just to rub salt into the wound. Plus, there was no shame in losing to the King of Camelot. Would Lancelot talk to him about it? Would he explain himself?

The worst Lancelot could do was turn the question around on Merlin, and he wasn’t prepared to reveal that part of himself. Everybody already knew it existed, he didn’t see why he should rip his heart out and put it on open display. He didn’t want to point to every scar and reveal every story. _See this here? This is when Arthur found out about my magic and drew blood with his sword. And this funny little scar is when Arthur told me he loved me because he was sure that one of us would be dead before sunrise. And this twisted one across the center is when he told me he loved Guinevere more._

Merlin locked himself in his room that night just to prove he didn’t need to run to Lancelot. All he proved was that he couldn’t sleep by himself. 

#

Merlin wouldn’t say he was looking for Lancelot, but he sure found the knight easily enough. He found his way down to the practice field and took his old, regular spot. He’d spent hours there in the unforgiving sun, watching Arthur even though he didn’t need to. Now Leon led the knights through their regular drills, though Arthur made it a point to work with his knights on a regular basis. Today, Arthur was locked in a meeting about rationing grain. A meeting that Merlin would have been able to get Arthur out of back when Arthur was still the prince.

When Lancelot noticed him, he inclined his head and smile. It was a fleeting moment, but it warmed Merlin. 

“I haven’t seen you out here in a long time,” Gawain said from behind him. 

“What are you doing over here talking to me instead of working?” Merlin asked. 

“Taking a break.” 

“A break?” He turned surprised eyes on Gawain. “Knights aren’t allowed to take breaks.” 

Gawain grinned, though pain lurked in his eyes, and he was clearly favoring his right side. “They are when Leon is in charge and Arthur isn’t around.”

“Were you injured today?” 

“No. An old injury acting up.” 

“Here.” Merlin conjured up a chair and a fresh bucket of water. “Sit down before you fall down.” 

Gawain sighed gratefully and nearly collapsed on the chair. “Thank you. You’re not going to tell Arthur about this, are you?” 

“No, I’m not down here spying on you guys.” Merlin grinned. “If I were, you wouldn’t know about it.”

“I always suspected as much. Leon just tells me I’m paranoid.” 

“You are paranoid.” 

Gawain only smiled wider and dumped a ladleful of water over his face, pouring it over his sweaty hair and beard. He looked exceptionally young with his hair slicked down, and Merlin realized with a start that he was Arthur’s age. _Arthur_ was still this young. Lancelot was still this young. And Merlin was younger than all three of them. 

“What cheerful errand has brought you down here, then? I thought you hated it.” 

“What? Being down here? No, I never hated it. I just hated it when Arthur insisted I participate.” 

Gawain nodded, his smile growing fond. “He sure loved to beat you with that sword.” 

“It was probably one of his greatest pleasures,” Merlin said dryly. 

“You never answered my question. What brings you to these parts?” 

“I…I came down to watch Lancelot.” 

“Oh.” 

Merlin gave him a sidelong look. “What?” 

“I had heard…but I didn’t know if that was true.” 

Merlin sighed. “Has anybody not heard?” 

“Kay saw the two of you snuggling on the way back from Ealdor. You know he’s the biggest gossip in Camelot.” 

“We weren’t snuggling,” Merlin muttered. 

Gawain waved his hand. “You were sleeping pretty close, is my point. Like you and Arth…” He stopped himself and smiled apologetically. 

“Kay’s already seen me down here. I guess word is probably already going around.” 

“Probably. But…Lancelot’s a good man.” 

“He is,” Merlin agreed, wondering if this was Gawain’s way of saying he approved. Not that Merlin had been waiting for the knights’ approval. But they had been silent witnesses to the whole drama, from the very first time Merlin met Arthur to the day they witnessed Arthur marry Guinevere. Merlin had spent hours watching them train, had been there when they’d fallen, had nursed some of them back to health. They nearly counted as friends, but for the fact that their loyalty would always lie with Arthur and never with Merlin. Nobody’s loyalties were with Merlin. 

Gawain opened his mouth to say more, but his attention cut sideways, and his smile faltered. Merlin followed the line of his attention and managed to stifle his surprised gasp. Guinevere watched from the battlements, her hair fluttering in the autumn breeze. She watched the knights with rapt attention and Merlin knew who captivated her. While Merlin watched, Lancelot looked up to the exact spot Gwen stood, as though he knew he’d see her there. 

“Do you see her here often?” 

“A few times a week.” 

“When Arthur’s involved in meetings?” 

“Yes.” 

Merlin’s first impulse was to leave. To cede the practice field to her as he’d ceded everything else. But she didn’t have any claim to that space or to Lancelot. He was going to hold his ground for once. Maybe Lancelot never would love him, but he didn’t have any pressing plans to fall in love with Lancelot, either. 

#

Merlin made Lancelot dinner. He changed into his old clothes, the ones he never really wore anymore, and gathered what he needed from the meat locker and the castle kitchens. He hadn’t been responsible for anybody’s meals in quite a long time, but he reasoned that if he truly forgot how to make an edible dinner, he could always fall back on his magic. Just the thought brought to mind Gaius’ disapproving glare ( _You can’t use your magic for everything, Merlin_ ), and for the first time in a long time, the thought of the old physician made him smile instead of wince. 

“Am I in the right house?” Lancelot asked. “It doesn’t smell like my house.” 

“It smells better, I hope.” 

“Much better. I didn’t think I would see you tonight.” 

Merlin shrugged. “I’m not imposing, am I?” 

“Not at all. I was debating going to your room. I’m glad I didn’t. What are you making?” 

“Stew. It’s nothing fancy. I’ve never been much of a cook.” 

“I’m sure it’ll taste wonderful. I’m just going to get cleaned up.” 

“Do you want a bath?” Merlin asked, waving his fingers. A giant tub appeared in the middle of the room, complete with steaming, scented water. 

“Show off,” Lancelot said. “If you can do that, why didn’t you just conjure up the stew?” 

_I needed something to do with myself._ “You have time to bathe before dinner.” 

“Only if you join me.” 

Merlin hadn’t expected the invitation, but as soon as Lancelot uttered it, the sorcerer realized he’d conjured a tub large enough for two people. He dropped his spoon and straightened from the cauldron. Lancelot was looking at him with a small, teasing smile, his eyes dark, his face streaked with mud and dry blood. They undressed quickly, mirroring each other as they shucked their clothing and toed off their shoes. Merlin was the first to step into the tub, his toes tingling pleasantly as they sank into the hot water. 

“I’ll wash your back,” Merlin offered. 

Lancelot climbed over the high sides and settled between Merlin’s legs, sighing as the water covered his sore muscles and seeped into his scratches. There weren’t many, Merlin was glad to see. Probably most of the blood on him had come from one his opponents. Merlin worked up a good lather with the soap between his palms before smoothing his hands over Lancelot’s neck and shoulders. 

“This is nice,” Lancelot murmured. 

Merlin hummed in agreement. They settled in a comfortable silence, broken up only by the sound of water splashing against the tub wall and the fire cracking in the hearth. Merlin concentrated on removing each speck of dirt, running his hand over Lancelot’s firm skin again and again, noting a thousand little details that he never noticed before. He washed his arms and between each of his fingers, before concentrating on his chest and ribs. His hands sank below the water to wash Lancelot’s thighs before slippery fingers closed around the knight’s stiff cock. 

He stroked Lancelot slowly and pressed his lips to the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his warm, freshly scrubbed skin, the steam rising around them. The tip of Merlin’s cock brushed against Lancelot’s back and his eyes fluttered with pleasure. He’d never tried to fuck Lancelot, but Merlin was beginning to think that now would be a good time to try. Even Arthur had found it quite enjoyable the few times he had allowed Merlin to take control. 

“Lancelot.” Merlin didn’t lift his head, his tongue tracing Lancelot’s skin between words. “I want to be inside of you. It won’t hurt, I promise.” 

“I trust you.” 

Merlin released his breath in a long sigh. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy, but everything was easy when it came to Lancelot. Arthur argued with him so much that sometimes Merlin thought he did it purely for the joy of being contrary. But Lancelot had never been obstinate, never aggressive, and his easy-going, respectful nature never wavered. 

He slid his other hand beneath Lancelot, gently pushing past his buttocks to brush his finger across his clenched hole. Merlin didn’t need to speak for this spell. A thought was enough to do it, and his finger easily slid into Lancelot’s virgin ass. Lancelot clenched around him so tightly that Merlin couldn’t move his hand for a long moment. Merlin kissed him again, pressing his lips to Lancelot’s shoulder until he finally began to relax. He pumped his hands in time, stroking inside Lancelot’s ass and over his cock, moving deliberately to hide the way he trembled. He wanted to tear into Lancelot, wanted to bury himself in all that willing heat until the rest of the day was just burned from his mind. 

Merlin pushed Lancelot forward until he was on his knees, half hanging over the edge. His skin was gold in the firelight, tiny drops of water rolling over the knobs of his spine. Merlin sucked his breath in and stretched over Lancelot’s body, tongue darting out to catch the drops. His cock aligned with Lancelot’s entrance, and a smooth thrust of his hips was all it took to sheath himself. 

“Merlin…gods…” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No…no…” 

“Good,” Merlin sighed, gripping Lancelot’s shoulder. He pulled out and snapped his hips forward, the water sloshing around them. His magic rushed and pulled inside of him, and he wanted to turn it loose. He wanted to give up all his control and release every pent up emotion that threatened to choke him. But he didn’t want to use Lancelot that way. He wasn’t just a warm body to serve as a distraction. 

Merlin kept one hand on Lancelot’s cock, not stroking him, but letting a small amount of magic pass between their skin. He didn’t know exactly what Lancelot felt, but it was enough to prompt tiny moans from him. Merlin had never heard anything like it from Lancelot, and it was worth it. It was so worth it to take it slow, to catch every soft sound in a kiss, to let himself be loving instead of angry. 

Merlin didn’t come until after the second time Lancelot shuddered beneath him. They collapse together, and Merlin couldn’t even drain the tub of water. His entire body was unresponsive, including his magic. Lancelot seemed just as unresponsive, his limbs pliant, his eyes half-closed. At least a quarter of the candle had melted away before Merlin felt like he could get his legs under him again. He helped Lancelot out of the tub, waved the tub away, and used the spell he’d found specifically because Arthur always turned into a bear when it rained to dry Lancelot’s skin. 

Merlin considered mentioning Gwen while they split the stew. He didn’t have to necessarily ask about her visit to the practice field. But the words stopped on his tongue when a little voice asked if he _really_ wanted to know. 

No. He really didn’t. 

#

Merlin made dinner for Lancelot the next night. And the night after that. It wasn’t long until he stopped taking supper in the castle altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur didn’t need to participate in the tournaments, but he still did a few times a year, because he enjoyed them and because he knew his people enjoyed watching him. Merlin hated it. He hated how easy Arthur made it for ambitious knights to kill him—even though he had Albion’s loyalty and he was an amazing fighter, there was still a chance, no matter how small. Merlin had a chair on the platform, alongside Guinevere’s, but he chose to watch from the sidelines. Because that’s where he always watched Arthur, and sometimes, Arthur looked his way. 

His feet wanted to carry him directly to Arthur’s tent. He felt like he had things to do. Tourney days had always been hectic for Merlin, not to mention stressful. Now he had no particular duties to perform and he wasn’t needed at all. Lancelot didn’t even need him. He had his own squire to help him with his armor, and the new court physician (he’d been the court physician for four years but he was still _the new guy_ as far as Merlin was concerned) never appreciated Merlin following him from tent to tent and hovering. Sorcery was rarely necessary at these events anymore. Since Uther’s death, the number of people hoping to assassinate Arthur had dropped dramatically. All of that meant he was free to enjoy the fights in the shade of the pavilion, but he still stood in the hot sun, head uncovered. 

Neither Lancelot nor Arthur fought on the first day. Arthur watched his future combatants from his chair with a skeptical eye, and Merlin knew he was already weeding through the ranks, looking for new knights. That was another reason he enjoyed fighting in the tourneys. It gave him a chance to evaluate likely prospects up close and personal. Lancelot spent most of the day at Merlin’s side, shouting with the rest of the crowd, occasionally yelling instructions or encouragement. A number of commoners approached Lancelot to wish him luck, to tell him how much he was admired. A few young ladies even offered scarves to him, but he declined with such charm that they still walked away happy. 

Merlin debated giving Lancelot a similar token. He didn’t wear neckerchiefs anymore, but he could conjure one to tie around Lancelot’s arm. The thought made his stomach clench and his chest flutter. The Camelot gossip mill wasn’t fooled by them and nearly everybody knew Merlin had practically moved out of the castle in favor of Lancelot’s, so what difference would it make if they chose to do something that so publically flaunted their relationship? 

Merlin toyed with the idea, turning it over and over in his mind that night as Lancelot slept. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It didn’t deserve this sort of fixation. Either he gave Lancelot his kerchief or he didn’t—the world would continue either way. But it felt like a very big deal. Like if he went that far, there really would be no turning back. On the other hand, if he was genuinely considering it, didn’t that mean they were already past the point of turning back? Especially since he was sure Lancelot would accept Merlin’s token. 

Lancelot left before dawn without waking Merlin. Merlin wasn’t sure how he managed that, since the bed was still too small for both of them. He conjured a fresh set of clothes, including his kerchief which he tied jauntily around his neck, and left for the arena with a certain lightness in his step. He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d made up his mind, but it was the right choice. He felt sure of that. And when he watched the fights that afternoon, for the first time since his arrival in Camelot, he wouldn’t cheer for Arthur’s victory. 

Though he still loved to watch Arthur fight. His skill and grace were simply unmatched, and though he’d always been a powerful warrior, he fought with a certain maturity now. Merlin couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had changed, but he saw the difference every time Arthur took up his sword. He seemed calmer now, and his gaze didn’t constantly jump to the chair his father used to occupy. Maybe he was simply calmer now. More grounded, more secure. Merlin hoped Arthur and Lancelot wouldn’t meet each other inside the arena, but he knew they would. They were the two best knights in all of Albion. Somebody would have to have a very good, very lucky day to knock them out. 

Merlin found Lancelot in his tent, looking as calm as his squire looked harried. He smiled as Merlin ducked inside. “Come to wish me good luck?” 

“Of course, Sir Knight.” Merlin pressed his lips to Lancelot’s and loosened the neckerchief. When he lifted his head, he pressed the scrap of material into Lancelot’s hand. “For luck.” 

Lancelot looked down to the material and then back up at Merlin, a question drawing his eyebrows together. “You truly wish me to wear this?” 

“Yes. If you want to. You don’t have to.” 

He looked down, turning his body slightly so Merlin couldn’t see his face. “I would be honored to. Could you do something for me?” 

“Yes, name it.” 

“Would you sit on the pavilion with the queen?” Lancelot looked up and offered a shy smile. “It’ll be easier for me to find you then.” 

And harder for Arthur if Merlin wasn’t in his expected place. Merlin gave himself a mental shake. Arthur _didn’t care_ where Merlin chose to watch the tourney or if he chose to watch at all. 

“I’ll be happy to.” 

“Thank you.” 

Merlin pressed a brief kiss to Lancelot’s mouth and took a step back. “I’ll leave you to prepare.”

He had to walk past Arthur’s tent to reach the pavilion. He saw Arthur’s familiar silhouette against the material, and he hesitated just outside, torn between ducking inside like he used to, and walking straight ahead like he was supposed to. He stood frozen like that for what felt like an eternity, unsure of what he wanted, of what was appropriate, of what Arthur would want. The desire to simply see him was overwhelming, but his mouth still tingled from where he kissed Lancelot and Merlin decided it was best to keep walking. 

#

Gwen smiled at him as Merlin stepped onto the pavilion, and if she was surprised to see him, she hid it well. Merlin returned the smile, hoping his mouth didn’t look at tight as it felt. She was beautiful in a soft purple dress, her hair pulled back into a long braid, a narrow crown encircling her brow. Her maidservant, Amelia, stood just behind her, holding a pitcher of cold water, but the two girls talked and laughed between comments like they were close friends. Merlin wanted to join the conversation, but he couldn’t. His words stuck in his throat, choking him. Sometimes, he missed Gwen more than he missed Arthur. 

The fighting was almost enough to distract Merlin from his darker thoughts. All of the visiting knights were truly impressive, but not quite as impressive as the Round Table knights. Again and again, the men who trained under Arthur’s tutelage beat their competitors, each match building the anticipation for Camelot’s most renowned knights---Leon, Lancelot, and Arthur. Leon dispatched his first challenger with ease, his style not as graceful as Arthur’s but his sword just as deadly. 

Lancelot did not have such an easy time. He fought Sir Braden of Mercia, a monster of a man. He towered over Lancelot, and he fought with an axe. Merlin was certain that Lancelot could easily adjust to the giant’s slower movements, but he was more concerned about the wide arc of the axe. Braden had a hell of a wingspan, and the curved blade sliced through the air, whistling its warning each time Braden made a move for Lancelot’s neck. Lancelot was fast, though, and he ducked and parried, rolling out of Braden’s way more than once. 

Merlin could feel Gwen tense with each near-miss and parry. She sat forward in her chair until she was nearly standing, her knuckles white where she clutched her seat. Her eyes were wide with obvious fear, and she gasped and cheered just a half-second ahead of the rest of the crowd. It was almost like she was looking into the future, but Merlin understood. He did the same thing when he watched Arthur. He could always tell when something was going right, always knew when something had gone wrong just before it did. 

The sun beat down relentlessly as the match continued. Once, Merlin drew his attention from the fight to look across the arena and saw Arthur standing with the crowd, his helmet under his arm. His attention wasn’t on the brutal fight. The fight that was only growing more brutal by the second. First blood had been drawn, but Braden refused to yield. Merlin had seen that sort of blind determination before. Nothing short of death would bring him down and keep him down. Lancelot would have to destroy him. It should have been enough to catch and hold Arthur’s attention, but he wasn’t even looking at Lancelot. And he didn’t notice Merlin was watching him. He was too busy gazing at his queen. 

And she was too busy panicking over Lancelot to realize it. 

Lancelot finally knocked Braden’s legs out from under him. His head hit the ground so hard his helmet bounced off, and his axe skidded across the dirt. Lancelot yanked his helmet off with one hand and put the sword to Braden’s throat. “Do you yield?” 

Braden held up two fingers, signaling he did. Lancelot stepped back to the cheers of the crowd, and Gwen’s very grateful sigh. Lancelot turned towards the Pavilion and bowed. Gwen clapped her hands, and Merlin jumped to his feet, applauding and shouting with the rest of the crowd. He only let himself look at Arthur once, but Arthur had already turned away. 

Merlin excused himself from the pavilion and hurried towards Lancelot’s tent. It wasn’t easy to push his way through the crowd, but Merlin felt tight and flushed, and he needed to get to Lancelot. Needed to make sure he wasn’t hurt, needed to touch his unbroken skin, needed to go through the same comforting routine he’d established with Arthur because the routine comforted _him_. 

He pulled the tent flap back and peered into the dim enclosure. Lancelot stood on the far side, slightly hunched over, Merlin’s neckerchief still tied around his arm. But he was winding something through his fingers, caressing it like he would a lover. Merlin squinted, and saw it was another piece of fabric. Something light purple. The same shade as the dress Gwen wore. Lancelot looked at it with open affection, and there was more emotion, more fondness in his eyes than Lancelot had ever directed at him. 

Merlin took a deep breath and stepped back, his excitement forgotten. The tight arousal in his stomach changed into something else, and he thought he might vomit. When he felt this sick and confused, this wretched, there was only place he wanted to be. He found his way to the proper tent without conscious thought, and everybody recognized him, so nobody tried to halt his progress. Nobody told him he didn’t belong there. Nobody tried to send him away. Not even Arthur. Though he did seem more than a little surprised to see Merlin. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Merlin lifted the hauberk from the table. “I’ve come to help you dress. You know I don’t trust your new manservant.” 

Arthur sniffed. “He’s one hundred times the servant you were.” 

Merlin smiled and fit the piece over Arthur’s head. Arthur was smiling too, and it even reached his eyes. They didn’t speak again, but they didn’t need to. Merlin had gone through this dance a thousand times, maybe even ten thousand, and it was second nature. Being with Arthur was second nature. For a few minutes, they weren’t a king and his sorcerer, or former lovers, or former friends. They were just Arthur and Merlin. And it felt really wonderful. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“I don’t get nervous.” 

Merlin checked over all the ties and nodded with satisfaction before taking a step back. “Good luck, sire.” 

Arthur’s grin was cocky. Almost prattish. “Thanks, but I won’t need it.” 

Arthur was right. He didn’t. 

#

Arthur and Lancelot were set to face each other in the final match on the third day. Publically, Merlin could express no preference for the winner. Everybody knew he had private reasons to cheer for Lancelot’s victory, but Arthur was still the King. More important, Arthur was still _Arthur_ , and Merlin did not believe the day would ever come when he’d hope for anything besides Arthur’s glory. He didn’t exactly understand what was going on between himself and Lancelot, but he knew where his loyalties were and where they would remain. 

That was why he returned to Arthur’s tent the next day after Gwen was comfortably settled on the pavilion. 

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Arthur greeted without looking up. 

“Why not?” 

“I thought you would be helping Lancelot.” 

“He has a squire.” 

Arthur’s lips quirked. “So do I, technically. Where is he, by the way?” 

“I sent him away.” 

“One of the guards told me he saw a lanky man sneak into the armory last night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

Merlin looked at Arthur through his lashes, putting on his most innocent face. “Me, sire? No, I don’t know anything about it. What would anybody want with the armory?” 

“It was somebody with a sick need to polish swords, apparently.” 

“Sounds like whoever it was has a grave mental affliction.” 

“Most grave,” Arthur agreed. “But he did a fine job. It’s a shame I can’t thank him for his hard work.” 

“I’m sure he believes serving you is its own reward, my lord.” 

Arthur sighed wistfully and held out his arms, waiting for the first piece of armor. “What a refreshing thought.” 

They worked in silence until Merlin was nearly finished with the task. Arthur’s question was so soft, Merlin could have ignored it if he wanted. “Does this mean you’ll be cheering for me?” 

“Yes,” Merlin breathed. “Of course.” 

“I noticed he wears your favor.” 

Merlin bit his tongue, the pain focusing his attention from the words he wanted to blurt. “Yes. I gave it to him for luck.” 

“Just as well. He’ll need all the help he can get.” 

“Indeed, sire.” 

“Merlin.” 

“Yes?” 

“Merlin, do you think…” 

Merlin looked up, meeting Arthur’s troubled gaze. “What is it?” 

“Do you think I can beat him?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Because he’s…he’s rather quite good.” 

“Well, yes. He’s Lancelot.” 

Arthur frowned. “Better than I remember seeing him fight before. He was always good, but now it’s as though he’s fighting for something more than a purse.” 

Merlin remembered the scrap of cloth folded around Lancelot’s fingers and almost winced. “He has been training a great deal in the past year.” 

“Yes, I know. He trains while I grow fat and slow in meetings.” 

“Oh, no, Arthur, that’s not fair. You’re not slow.” 

Arthur’s glare was so perfect that it was all Merlin could do to bite back his laugh. “Thank you for that, Merlin.” 

“You can beat him, Arthur. You’re the best. That hasn’t changed.” 

“You still believe in me,” Arthur murmured with more than a hint of wonder. 

“Always.” Merlin handed Arthur his helmet. “Make Camelot proud.” 

Arthur blinked at him and leaned forward, ever so slightly. Before, this would be the point where Merlin kissed him for luck. He’d whisper another fond word of encouragement and maybe let a little of his magic go into Arthur’s blood. The impulse to do it now was almost overpowering, but he held himself back, passing Arthur his sword instead. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kiss Arthur—he did. He just didn’t want to find out what Arthur’s fist felt like when it connected with his face. 

Arthur nodded his thanks and walked out of the tent with long, powerful strides. He looked like he was off to the battlefield to fight for his kingdom. The stakes of this tourney were much, much lower, but Merlin had never seen Arthur genuinely nervous before a match. Apprehensive at times. Wary at other times. But he’d never doubted himself before. What did Arthur stand to lose? Lancelot only wanted one thing from him, and no matter how many tourneys Arthur lost, he would never surrender that prize. 

Merlin took his normal spot near the sidelines, leaving his chair on the pavilion empty. Gwen sat by herself, fear and worry lining her face, her eyes large and solemn. She looked far more worried than anybody else in the arena, and that included Arthur. But who did she fear for? Did she believe her husband truly was the superior fighter and he would cut Lancelot down? Or did she privately share Arthur’s anxiety that Lancelot was now the superior fighter? She could never think to cheer for Lancelot, but would she be able to cheer the blows that landed against him? Merlin could never cheer against Arthur, but Lancelot was still wearing his neckerchief, a constant reminder of Merlin’s support. 

At first, the match reminded Merlin of a thousand similar fights between the two men during drills. Each thrust and parry was clean, both men were patient, happy to hang back and wait for the other to make the first aggressive move. They studied each other, feet constantly moving, swords at the ready. Arthur’s shoulders were broader, but Lancelot seemed to be quicker. Unlike most of the other Camelot knights, Lancelot hadn’t learned to fight from Arthur. Their styles were radically different—complimentary. They shouldn’t have been facing off against each other. They should have been standing shoulder to shoulder, swinging their swords in a well-practice, graceful dance. 

Lancelot moved to block a blow and unintentionally left his right side open. Arthur struck quickly, taking advantage of the small window, and blood immediately pushed through the lacerated armor. Arthur was rewarded a point for drawing first blood, and the crowd roared its approval. All but Merlin and Gwen—Gwen’s hand had gone to her mouth in momentary shock, but she recovered herself quickly, holding both hands in her lap. 

From there, the tempo of the fight increased. Lancelot countered quickly, but it wasn’t enough to make a connection. Not until he spun around and brought his sword down on Arthur’s left side. The crowd winced at once, and Merlin couldn’t help but check Gwen’s response. Her eyes were wide, her shoulders hunched and tense. 

They fought on and on like that, matching each other blow for blow so neither of them could get the upper hand. Merlin had seen Arthur involved in similar battles, but nothing like this. Lancelot had been training harder in the past year, but Arthur was grimly determined. Merlin could tell even from a distance, he knew Arthur’s jaw was locked, obstinate and angry. He had something to prove, and Merlin knew nothing short of death would stop him. 

Merlin hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

Lancelot began to favor the side Arthur wounded, and that’s what finally caused his downfall. He couldn’t twist away fast enough, and Arthur had him flat on his back in an instant. From Merlin’s position, he could see two things. The first was the ruby blood on Lancelot’s throat where Arthur’s blade bit into the delicate skin. The second was the fluttering strand of purple. Merlin acted without thought, and even later he couldn’t say why he did it. For Lancelot’s life? For Gwen’s honor? For Arthur’s pride? His own selfishness? His eyes briefly glowed yellow and the purple material disappeared from sight. 

“Do you yield?” Arthur demanded. 

“I yield, your majesty.” 

Arthur put a hand down and pulled Lancelot to his feet. The crowd roared its approval, and Gwen jumped to her feet, applauding wildly. Merlin slunk away, bypassing Arthur’s tent. He was waiting for Lancelot, prepared to see to his wounds, wondering who was to see to Arthur. 

#

They needed to talk. There was a great secret pressing on the air between them, and for the first time, Merlin sympathized with Arthur. Truly felt sorry for the way he made Arthur suffer through the years he kept his magic a secret, because of course Arthur had known nearly the whole time. And he had waited and waited for Merlin to make his confession. But Merlin never did, and he knew Lancelot never would. 

There was no delicate way to broach the subject. As far as Merlin knew, nobody had ever invented away to talk about adultery and treason and betrayal in a delicate manner. He wanted to turn his back on the whole issue, insist that it wasn’t any of his business. Because it really wasn’t any of his business. But he’d already saved Lancelot’s life once, and the next time something like that happened, Merlin might not be present. He couldn’t say for sure if Arthur would really _kill_ Lancelot, but he’d be well within his rights to do so. 

“Is it within the codes of chivalry to accept one token when you’re secretly bearing the token of another?” Merlin finally blurted. It sounded a lot more like _How dare you do this to me?_ and a lot less like _You’re going to get your head separated from your neck, you fool_ than Merlin had intended. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lancelot lied, surprisingly calm for an honest man. 

“I saw it. What’s more, I stopped Arthur from seeing it.” 

Lancelot froze. “What?” 

“When he fell you. A scrap of the material came lose. I hid it again before he noticed.” 

“Thank you.” 

Merlin’s fist clenched. He didn’t want Lancelot’s gratitude. “What do you think you’re playing at?” 

“Nothing,” Lancelot whispered. “There’s no…game. There’s nothing.” 

“Do you think Arthur would believe that story if he’d seen the evidence with his own eyes?” 

“I will be more careful in the future.” 

“You will divest yourself of that token immediately,” Merlin said, his tone matching Lancelot’s. He had no reason to believe anybody would overhear this conversation, but it seemed to wrong to speak of such things in a normal tone. “And you will end this, whatever it is.” 

“I can’t do that, Merlin.” 

“You _have_ to, Lancelot. You must. Arthur is much smarter than even you give him credit for. And worse…he knows now to look for deceit in people. It’s a lesson he’s had to learn, but he learned it well.” 

“I love her. I can’t pretend that’s not true.” 

“You were willing to leave her once before. What’s the difference now?” 

“I was stupid. I never should have left.” 

“You were being noble. You did the right thing then. You’ve got to do it again.” 

“Merlin, I vowed I would not interfere with their marriage, and I have not.” 

Merlin gaped at him. “Do you truly believe that? If you don’t…don’t cut her free, her heart is never going to truly belong to Arthur.” 

“Cut her free? You mean, turn my back on her? Pretend I have no feelings for her at all? Make her believe my heart is fickle when I promised it would always be true to her?” 

“Yes! That’s exactly what I mean.” 

“How is that working for you, Merlin?” 

Merlin sat back in his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“That’s the tactic Arthur took, isn’t it? I know he cut you out of his life with barely a word.” 

“You don’t know anything about what happened between us.”

“Gwen told me he moved you into a new room while you were away. Was that cold enough to freeze your heart? Are you free to love another?” 

Merlin flushed with rage at the thought of Gwen sharing _any_ details about him and Arthur. “What else did she say to you?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“When the queen is gossiping to her consort about my personal life, it does matter.” Merlin’s words dripped with ice, and he realized Lancelot didn’t deserve all of this anger. 

“It wasn’t gossip. She was worried about you, Merlin. She loves you as one of her dearest friends and she knew…” 

“And you were her closest confidant.” 

“As you’re Arthur’s,” Lancelot flung back. “So tell me, Merlin, did it work? Are you happy?” 

“Are you? She can’t even acknowledge you in public.” 

“No, she can’t. But I still get to see her. Sometimes, she’ll smile, and I can imagine it’s for me. It is a privilege to kneel at her feet and serve her.” 

“And that’s enough for you?” 

“It has to be, Merlin.” 

Merlin sighed. “Fine. Do whatever you need to do, but could it be with less…evidence? Lancelot, he could have _killed_ you.” 

“Would you be sorry if I died?” 

“Yes. Of course, I’d be sorry.” 

“You weren’t cheering for me.” 

“You weren’t fighting for me.” 

That ended the conversation, and Merlin didn’t know if he felt reassured or not. They ate in familiar silence, and when they were done, Merlin rose to leave. Lancelot caught his hand, gently pulling until Merlin was forced to look at him. Lancelot’s dark eyes held his as he brought Merlin’s hand up to his mouth, skimming his lips over Merlin’s knuckles. 

“Stay with me, Merlin.” 

Merlin only hesitated for a second before nodding and straddling Lancelot’s lap. Their kiss tasted as bitter as their words had sounded, but it did soften gradually, until there was only a tinge of desperation between them. 

#

_It is a privilege to kneel at her feet and serve her._

“Arthur, I need to speak to you privately.” 

Arthur didn’t look up from the parchment he was studying. “Is it urgent, Merlin?” 

“It’s about Morgana.” 

Arthur looked up and gestured for everybody in the counsel room to leave. “There’s news?” He asked, once the doors closed. 

“There is, Arthur.” Merlin sat in the chair to the right of him. His usual place. “And I’m sorry.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened. “What? What is it?” 

“Remember when I told you she didn’t want to be found? Well, it seems I was right. And now she wants your attention.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Merlin took a deep breath. “Because she led a raid against a village in the north.” 

“That wasn’t her,” Arthur immediately said. “It couldn’t have been.” 

“It was her.” Merlin leaned forward. “According to reports, she was with two Druids. One of them was Mordred.” 

“No, that’s not…why would…it can’t be.” 

“She wasn’t lost all those years, Arthur. She was hiding with the Druids. She was…amassing an army.” 

Arthur’s eyes were almost liquid. “Did you know about this? Were you keeping this information from me?” 

“I suspected, but I never had any evidence. She was…blocking my attempts to see her. Her magic is quite powerful.” 

“I suspected that, too,” Arthur admitted. “I wanted you to find her because I just wanted to be wrong. So what do you think?” 

“I think she’s strong, but we’re stronger.” 

“I don’t understand why she’d betray me.” 

“She’s not. I mean, she’s not doing this to betray _you_ Arthur. But she began this war before Uther died.” 

“Then why hasn’t she stopped? I’m not my father. The Druids are no longer hunted as outlaws.” 

“I don’t know. Maybe she nursed that hurt for so long she can’t imagine a world without it. Maybe her magic drove her mad. She wasn’t as lucky as me. She didn’t have Gaius.” _Or you._

Arthur inclined his head thoughtfully. “Get a full report on the raid and find out if there were any other villages struck. I want to know every detail, including what she took. After we gather the intelligence, we can start thinking strategy. I would rather not take the offensive right away.” 

“Right away, sire.” 

“Tell Lancelot and Leon I want to see them. I don’t want many people to know about this. Or Gwen.” 

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” 

Arthur pursed his lips. “I think it’s the best option. At least until we have more information.” 

Merlin nodded and stood. The difficult part of Arthur’s destiny hadn’t been uniting Albion. The difficult part would be holding it. Arthur needed him more than ever, and as Merlin hurried to carry out Arthur’s orders, he understood it truly would be enough to serve him as he always had. As he always would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin still knew exactly what was on Arthur’s mind every time he looked at him. First, the accusatory _did you know?_ and then the regretful _why did she have to leave?_ and finally the plaintive _what am I supposed to do now?_

Merlin and Arthur stopped speaking to each other. Not all at once. It was a gradual process that began with a mutual agreement not to bring up the two people missing from their lives. But Merlin soon discovered it was easier to avoid mentioning _them_ if he simply didn’t talk about anything. Then Arthur must have reached the same conclusion, because he stopped instigating casual conversations. Once the casual discussions fell by the wayside and they were forced to find other ways to communicate, it was only a matter of time before the formal conversations stopped as well. 

Not that it made a huge difference. Merlin still knew exactly what was on Arthur’s mind every time he looked at him. First, the accusatory _did you know?_ and then the regretful _why did she have to leave?_ and finally the plaintive _what am I supposed to do now?_ Merlin hadn’t known what Lancelot was planning, and no matter how many times Arthur thought it, the answer didn’t change. Merlin didn’t know why Gwen couldn’t be happy with Arthur, couldn’t be happy in that place. And he most certainly didn’t know what Arthur was supposed to do now. He didn’t even know what to do with himself. 

The tensions between Morgana and Camelot had cooled slightly. A mixed blessing at best. When Arthur was preparing for war with the woman he thought of as a sister, he was too distracted to think about the far greater betrayal in his life. Watching Arthur work out strategies to kill his sister in order to forget about his desire to kill his wife and his former friend tore at Merlin’s heart. Arthur had aged twenty years overnight, he wore his exhaustion like a badge of pride, and the gray around his temples didn’t seem out of place. But then the raids stopped, and Arthur made it known he would welcome a meeting with Morgana to work out a treaty between the throne and the Druids. They could do nothing but wait for her response, and it was in that lull that Merlin realized he couldn’t remember the last time he spoke to Arthur directly. 

_Did you know?_

Arthur hadn’t asked yet, but he would, and Merlin didn’t know how to answer. Of course, he hadn’t known Lancelot was going to steal Guinevere away in the night. But he’d known Lancelot still loved Gwen. He never told Arthur that Gwen visited the practice field to watch Lancelot train. He never told Arthur that Lancelot still carried a token of Gwen’s favor. He never told Arthur about a hundred little things that all added up to one very huge thing that Arthur had every right to know about. Merlin rehearsed the conversation in his head daily, nightly, and in the end, the only response he could think of was _didn’t_ you _know_? 

_Why did she have to leave?_

Arthur probably wouldn’t vocalize that question. Of all the things Merlin feared, he feared that the least. Even if he thought Merlin knew the answer to that (he didn’t), Arthur wouldn’t open the door of criticism. He wouldn’t want Merlin to outline all the reasons Lancelot was superior. It wasn’t as though either of them could point to the precise moment when Arthur pushed her away, forced her into Lancelot’s arms. Merlin would never say any of those things, but perhaps Arthur feared he would. 

_What am I supposed to do now?_

Arthur didn’t need to articulate that question. Every gesture, every flicker of his eye, every frown, every strained command echoed his confusion. He continued conducting state business, focusing with a single-minded determination that would have made Uther proud. And like Uther, he ruled alone, aloof, his face a hard mask as he listened to the endless problems, requests, and entreaties. Occasionally, he glanced to his right, naturally searching for the person who no longer occupied that space. A few times, Merlin caught him looking to his left, but when his gaze settled on Merlin, something like disappointment flashed in his eyes before he stared forward again. 

Merlin threw himself into his own duties because that was, ironically, the easiest way to avoid seeing Arthur. They were both consumed with the business of running a kingdom, and it was a testament to how dedicated they were to never speaking of Gwen and Lancelot that they could govern Albion so effectively without exchanging a single word. One of Merlin’s official duties was to advice Arthur, and he couldn’t advice the king on anything unless he knew _everything_. He buried himself in work, stunned by the sheer number of reports that demanded the king’s attention on a daily basis, bored out of his skull, but thankful for the tedium. 

#

Merlin couldn’t bring himself to move out of Lancelot’s house. His chambers in the castle were perfectly serviceable and far more comfortable in many ways. It would be easier for him if he only had to travel up a flight of stairs after a long day of ignoring Arthur instead. It would be easier for him to wake up alone in his own bed, rather than wake up alone in the bed he shared with Lancelot. Every night before he fell asleep, he promised himself this would be the last night. In the morning, he would collect all the personal items that had made their way from the castle and he would return to his chambers and close up Lancelot’s house so nobody would ever live there again.

But Merlin never did. 

It wasn’t because he liked Lancelot’s house. He hated it. He _loathed_ it. He didn’t need to live surrounded by memories of his anger and pain. Worse, he didn’t need to be surrounded by memories of his happiness. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, like sleeping on stone, but once it had been perfect because Lancelot warmed it. Lancelot, who had never loved him, but who had seemed content with him, with the makeshift life they had together. They would have never been wildly happy together, but they would have been happy enough in their circumstances. Merlin was beginning to understand that even _happy enough_ was worth holding onto. Worth fighting for, even. It was greedy to ask for more than that. Hurtful and unrealistic, too. Selfish. 

How could they be so selfish? 

That would be the first thing on his list of questions he could never ask Arthur. Merlin had been willing to accept his fate, to sacrifice his happiness at the altar of the Greater Good for Arthur’s and Camelot’s sake. So why could they be so selfish? Was it Merlin’s fault? Had he unwittingly paved the way when he first hid Gwen’s token from Arthur’s sight? Or did he pave the way when he didn’t insist on Lancelot truly cutting ties with her? 

The second question on his list was definitely one he could never give voice to. For the same reason Arthur would never ask why Gwen left. Quite simply, he didn’t want to know the answer. He didn’t want to know why he was so unworthy for the two men he’d loved most of all. He didn’t want to know the flaws and weaknesses that ultimately repelled powerful, honorable men. He had tried to be good to Lancelot. He’d done everything he could to make Lancelot happy when they were together, but in the end, the distant love of a married woman had proven more satisfying, and more attractive. 

The third question, Merlin reflected as he stared at the rough surface of the table where he no longer shared his meals, was the same as Arthur’s. What was he supposed to do? He was done with love. Done with desire. Done with companionship. Merlin had never truly been alone before, and he wasn’t sure how much of a burden he was taking on himself, but a lifetime of loneliness had to be better than what he’d suffered through. Being lonely was better than being Arthur’s second choice again. 

In the end, that was why Merlin couldn’t bring himself to move out. It didn’t matter where he lived, because he was occupying space that never truly belonged to him. It was far less stressful to live somewhere small and humble. Somewhere not suitable for a queen and certainly not suitable for a king. It was easier to hold his peace and keep that precious silence intact if he and Arthur were physically separated. In the castle, there was too much icy distance between them. In the castle, it was too easy to see the disappointment on Arthur’s face and hear the fourth question that Arthur could never ask: _Why aren’t you her?_

#

There was never enough food. Merlin had known that since he was a child, but then the tragedy of that fact had been felt the most in his own home and his own small life. Now that fact meant something much different. The armies needed to be fed first. It took a large force to hold the boundaries of Albion together. Then the rest of the food needed to be rationed across the kingdom, distributed as fairly as possible. But what was fair? How could Merlin even devise of a system that treated everybody fairly? It didn’t matter how it could be done, only that it was done quickly. Arthur couldn’t act until Merlin submitted his conclusions, and so he pored over long rows of figures until everybody else in the castle had snuffed out their candles for the night. 

Everybody but one person. He sat alone in the council room, and Merlin knew he was there because he always knew where Arthur was. After Merlin had settled in with Lancelot, when everything hadn’t hurt so much, he and Arthur had gone over similar reports together. In fact, this would have been a perfect opportunity for Merlin to slip into the chambers, join him at the table, and quietly discuss the day, the week, the pressing state matters. It seemed impossible to join him now. Perhaps because of the silence stretching between them, thick as pitch and growing thicker by the day. Perhaps because it sliced what was left of Merlin’s heart to pieces when Arthur looked at him wish such great and terrible sadness. _I know_ , Merlin would always be tempted to say, _I know I’m not what you want. I’m sorry. I would fix it if I could. Please stop looking at me like that._

“My lord? Merlin?” 

Merlin looked up and blinked at the maid calling him from the door. “Yes, Emily? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“It’s the king, my lord.” 

“What about him?” 

“He’s…he’s…” Emily lowered her voice to a whisper. “Drunk.” 

“Arthur’s drunk?” 

Merlin shook his head. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding. Arthur enjoyed ale and wine as much as anybody else, but he never drank in excess. Not anymore. He thought it rather unseemly for a king to drink until his facilities were questionable. Merlin had always been secretly fond of drunk Arthur. For many reasons. Among the biggest was how touchy Arthur became with enough good wine in him. Suddenly, the man who could barely tolerate more than a gruff punch to the shoulder turned into, well, a girl. Or at a giant puppy, depending on how playful he felt. He understood why Arthur imposed such strict limits on himself once he assumed the throne, but he never fully appreciated it. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“That can’t be. Arthur doesn’t drink that much.” 

Now Emily looked even more troubled. “Well, my lord, he regularly requests a barrel from the cellar.” 

“A _barrel_?” 

“I thought you knew.” 

How was Merlin supposed to know anything about Arthur when he spent so much energy avoiding Arthur and not speaking to him? 

“He’s in the council chambers and we can’t convince him to go to bed.” 

“Has this happened before?” 

Emily swallowed. “Yes.” 

“How many times?” 

Emily looked down, her loyalty to her king trumping her fear of Merlin’s powers. He understood. He’d placed his own fear beneath his loyalty countless times, and he couldn’t say he would have done anything differently in her place. It didn’t matter anyway. Once was alarming enough. If this was a serious problem, he would know the extent soon enough. 

“I’ll take care of him Emily. Run on ahead and clear the rest of the servants from the room. Guards, too.” 

Emily dropped a curtsy and scurried away. Merlin stood and methodically straightened the parchment, tucking the more sensitive reports into a locked drawer and hanging the key around his neck. By the time he made his way through the familiar corridors, the council doors were closed shut and two guards watched them with a wary eye. Like they were more afraid of what might come out than who could go in. When they saw Merlin, unmistakable relief crossed their features. 

“It’s worse tonight,” Ramm confided at Merlin’s questioning look. “He seems…violent.” 

“ _Worse_ tonight? How often does this happen?” 

Ramm had the same discomfited look Emily had offered in response to Merlin’s question, and he realized the layers of necessary silence went far beyond Arthur and Merlin’s ability to communicate. Apparently all of Arthur’s servants were invested in protecting him, and it just made Merlin feel more shut out than he had before. He supposed it was something that Emily did come to him at all. It showed some measure of faith still existed in him, but realistically, Merlin didn’t know what he could do about the situation. 

“Are you going to use magic, sire?” 

“I suppose,” Merlin said slowly. “If it’s necessary.” 

If anything, Ramm looked more uncomfortable. Like he wanted to say _Oh, it’ll be necessary_. Merlin took a deep breath and pushed the door open, unsure of what he’d see. Given the fear he saw sensed in both Ramm and Emily, he expected something…frenetic. In Merlin’s experience, the only thing more frightening than Arthur angry was Arthur full of energy. But he was slouched in his chair, idly twirling his knife in his fingers, his eyes half-closed. 

“Arthur?” 

Arthur put both feet on the ground and sat straight up, looking surprisingly alert. “What? What is it?” 

“Nothing. I was just…I heard that…” Merlin’s attention slid to the barrel. “You were in here.” 

“Oh.” Arthur sat back in his chair with an exhausted sigh. Merlin glanced around, noticing the small signs of disarray in the normally immaculately kept room. A stain drying on the wall behind Merlin indicated that the goblet in front of Arthur was not the one originally sent with the barrel. “Clearly, the reports were accurate.” 

“Yes. Has something happened in here?” 

Arthur licked his lips. “Nothing out of the ordinary. What are you doing here?” 

“I told you…” 

“No, I meant, why are you in the castle so late? It is late, right?” 

“It is. I was looking at this month’s granary reports.” 

“You should go home.” 

Merlin took a deep breath. “I intend to soon, sire. I just wanted to be sure that you were well.” 

“Why would you care?” 

The question caught Merlin off-guard. It was literally the last thing he’d ever expect to hear from Arthur. Why would he ever have to ask Merlin why he cared? Arthur must have known that he only stayed in Camelot because he still cared too much for Arthur. Everybody else knew that was why he stuck around. He wasn’t even sure how he could respond to such a ludicrous inquiry, and Arthur didn’t really give him the chance before he snorted. 

“Get out, Merlin. Go home.” 

Oh, right. This was why they weren’t speaking anymore. Merlin reached deep within himself and dredged up a smile he hadn’t used in years. It was his most patient, most enthusiastic, most dutiful smile. The one he’d used on Arthur when he was being completely insufferable and Merlin wanted to avoid the stocks. 

“Not until we get you to your chambers, sire.” 

“I don’t want to go to my chambers.” 

“I know, but they’re far more comfortable than this. Cooler, too, this time of night.” 

“I’m fine, Merlin.” 

“You don’t look fine. You look like shit.” 

“As impertinent and disrespectful as ever, I see.” 

“Yes, sire, but I’m right, too. Did you bother with dinner tonight?” 

Arthur pursed his lips as if to say _it’s no business of yours._ “No. I wasn’t hungry.” 

“Let’s get you to your rooms, and then I’ll run down to the kitchen and fetch some dinner. You’ll feel better.” 

Arthur’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “If you think a little bit of dinner will help me feel better, then you’re dumber than I always said you were.” 

“I’m a right idiot,” Merlin agreed amiably, crossing the room to stand in front of Arthur. He clearly wanted Merlin to leave him alone. Clearly didn’t even want to see Merlin, and Merlin might have honored his wish if Arthur wasn’t terrorizing the hapless servants. It didn’t help that Merlin hated to see Arthur like this. At least if he got him settled in his room, Merlin could assure himself he did all he could. “Stand up, Arthur.” 

He expected Arthur to icily inform him that Merlin didn’t give the orders around here. But Arthur surprised him, jumping to his feet like Merlin had stung him. They stood toe to toe and eye to eye for only a second before Arthur began to sway. Merlin automatically put a hand out to settle him, and the brief touch was enough to knock the unstable king back to his chair. A very unkingly giggle escaped Arthur’s throat. 

“Oops. Was the castle moving?” 

“No. Did it feel like it was?” 

“The floor…” Arthur giggled again. “The stupid floor. Always ruining everything.” 

“Something has to ruin everything.” 

“That’s very true. I can’t walk.” 

Merlin nodded, gold seeping into his vision as he transported himself and Arthur across the castle. When everything returned to the proper color, Arthur was looking at him with unreserved awe. Merlin swallowed, his heart swelling until it seemed to block his throat. Arthur had looked at him in the very early days, when Merlin first felt comfortable doing magic in front of him. Merlin wished he had cherished those days more, instead of breathlessly looking forward to the time when Arthur would be king. Those years had been the best of his life and he’d been too selfish to enjoy them properly. 

“I forgot you could do that,” Arthur murmured. 

“I can do lots of things.” But not everything. Arthur probably had a whole list of things Merlin couldn’t do. “Like help you get ready for bed.” 

Arthur frowned heavily, watching as Merlin crossed to the closet and found the nightclothes he was looking for. They were old and soft, heavily mended, and should have been thrown out years ago. But Arthur could be strangely sentimental, and occasionally, that sentimentality trumped his need for order. He set the clothes on the table and reached for Arthur’s hand, pulling him to his feet. Arthur didn’t resist him, and his eyes seemed glassier than before. He allowed Merlin to lift and lower his arms, turn him this way and that, and generally manhandle him out of his clothes and into the sleeping garments. It felt so familiar, so natural, that Merlin didn’t even have to think. His hands knew what to do. 

Merlin itched to touch Arthur’s bare skin, to take advantage of the unexpected intimacy. The patch of skin on the back of his neck captivated Merlin, and he stared at it for several beats, remembering how he used to kiss it in the morning. Then he was staring at Arthur’s shoulders, and his stomach, and the ridge of his hips. There were a few new scars that Merlin had never seen before, and the sight of them struck some chord deep in his heart. He almost felt angry that Arthur’s body could change without his knowledge. 

Once he was done, he gently directed Arthur towards his giant bed. Arthur sat down heavily, grunting a little as the mattress compressed beneath him. Merlin moved to step back, but Arthur reached out almost blindly and snagged Merlin’s shirt. 

“Merlin.” 

“Arthur?” 

“Why _do_ you hate me?” 

Merlin sucked his breath in sharply. “Arthur…” 

“No. Wait. Pretend I didn’t ask that question. I know…I know. I just wish it wasn’t so.” 

“No, Arthur…” 

“Go home, Merlin.” Arthur pulled his blankets up around his shoulders and turned on his side. 

If ever Merlin needed to stand his ground, it was now. The conversation wasn’t over. How could Arthur ever think for a second that Merlin hated him? He wasn’t even capable of that—not now, not ever. But his thoughts were too scattered and they couldn’t have this conversation when Arthur was mostly drunk. When they would or could have this conversation, Merlin didn’t know. Later. Tomorrow. Or the week after. 

“Goodnight, Arthur.” 

He magicked himself out of the room before Arthur responded, following his orders and going home. Merlin stood alone in the center of the cold room, feeling too tired to start a fire or feed himself. Even magically. It wasn’t until he collapsed in bed that he realized he’d been wrong about Arthur’s list of questions. Because that one, as wrong-headed as it was, did as much to secure the silence between them as all the others. 

#

Merlin moved back to the castle. Arthur didn’t know exactly when it happened, but one early morning he passed by Merlin’s chambers and realized they were occupied for the first time in months. Arthur had stopped short at the door, his breathing becoming labored, his hand clenched in a ready fist. He imagined knocking, imagined Merlin opening the door, sleepy and disheveled, but he couldn’t imagine anything past that point. He didn’t know what he could say, and since Merlin couldn’t even stand to speak to him anymore, Arthur figured they would be stuck in the most awkward stand-off of all time. He could really only handle that once or twice a week, so chose to keep walking. 

He made two circuits around the castle on a nightly basis. Each circuit took approximately two hours to complete, and with a minor adjustment, both brought him past Merlin’s door. Just knowing that Merlin was on the other side made Arthur feel a little better. A little warmer. It wasn’t enough to chase away the constant chill inside Arthur’s chest, but it helped. Merlin’s door was the last door Arthur passed before his own chambers, and that vague sense of wellbeing accompanied him to bed. He managed to get one or two hours of sleep after his nightly walks. He could get three or four if he drank first, but with Merlin now permanently residing in the castle, Arthur didn’t want to risk another scene, another slip of the tongue. 

Leon was naturally the first person to comment on Merlin’s change of address. He was the only person left in Camelot who spoke to Arthur about items besides official business. Though he did phrase his question carefully. 

“A house has become available in the lower town. Sir Daegal has newly arrived in Camelot and he’s seeking accommodations.” 

Arthur nodded. “Yes, that’s fine. Does it need to be cleaned out?” 

“No, it looks like it hasn’t been lived in.” 

“How is Daegal’s progress?” 

“He’s one of the better of the new arrivals. I expect he will have a successful career in Camelot.” 

“Excellent. I’ll be down to view the practice tomorrow.” 

“Only to view, sire?” 

Arthur’s lips quirked. “It depends on what I see. We’ll need to meet later this week to discuss the tourney roster…” 

Leon blinked in surprised. “The tourney?” 

“Yes, the one we have every year to celebrate the harvest,” Arthur said slowly. 

“We’re still…of course, sire. It slipped my mind.” 

“Leon, there’s no reason to cancel any of the festivities. We’re in peacetime and the harvest will be a successful one. It’s a good time for celebration.” 

“But Arthur, with all due respect, Camelot may not be ready for such a celebration.” 

“This is just what Camelot is ready for.” Arthur clapped Leon on the shoulder. “Camelot needs a new champion, too.” 

“Yes, I might finally have a chance now that…” Leon’s voice faded away and he rubbed his beard awkwardly. 

“You can say his name,” Arthur said softly. “I’m not so weak that just the sound of it will destroy me.” 

“I was more worried about offending you.” 

“You’re the last friend I have left, Leon. I wouldn’t take offense at a casual slip of the tongue. Besides, you had a chance before he left. You were always nipping at his heels.” 

“It’s kind of you to say so, Arthur. I’ll submit my recommendations for the roster by the morning. Am I to take it you won’t be competing?” 

“It wouldn’t be wise right now,” Arthur admitted, and that was as close as he would ever come to admitting the physical toll his new habits were exacting on his physique. He’d always had a hearty appetite for sleep and food and activity. Now he found he couldn’t sleep and food tasted like sawdust. But his level of activity hadn’t really fallen, and now his clothes weren’t fitting properly. If this kept up, he would have to be fitted for new armor. Arthur was stubborn and arrogant at times, but he wasn’t stupid—he had no business fighting in this condition. 

His nightly walks started because he couldn’t sleep. At first, it was the memory of his last conversation with Gwen that kept him awake. Everything she had tearfully confessed, the words flowing from her in an unstoppable flood. How she thought she was capable of being Arthur’s wife, but how she felt unfaithful to Lancelot every time he touched her. How she felt personally responsible for Lancelot’s misery and Merlin’s misery, and the guilt had become too much for her to bear. She had been on her knees at his feet, completely broken from the burden she had tried to carry, begging for clemency. That was all she had asked him for. 

The story around Camelot was that Lancelot had made a daring rescue of his lady in the dead of the night. Together they had raced into the forest on a black steed, chased from the city walls by the furious king. Finally, just before dawn, they made their final escape and Arthur had been forced to abandon the trail out of exhaustion. Of course, this story was absolutely ridiculous, but Arthur supposed it made an exciting tale. The real story was much more mundane. Arthur had sent her away with Lancelot, supplying them with enough food and money to get out of Albion and across the sea. If Arthur had wanted to stop them, no horse would have been able to outrun his fury. 

Arthur wasn’t sure if Merlin was aware of any of this. It had all happened so quickly, and once Lancelot had been summoned to the castle, he didn’t have the time to return to Merlin to bid his farewell. Arthur would have been more than happy to supply Merlin the details, and he had thought he would have that chance the morning after Lancelot and Gwen left, but Merlin had taken Lancelot’s disappearance hard. 

If he had known it would break Merlin’s heart like that, he wouldn’t have released Gwen. Or he would have sent the three away together. Or he would have given Lancelot more of a chance to fix it instead of just sending them away so they would be out of his sight. He would have made every decision differently if it could have spared Merlin. He lurked around the castle, nothing more than a shadow haunting Arthur. And that was why Arthur continued to walk. When he closed his eyes, he saw Merlin’s pinched face and pale skin and wide, hurt eyes. 

He’d made such a mess of everything. How Albion continued to function—how Albion was even _formed_ \--was a mystery to him. He destroyed the three people he cared about the most with a single bad decision, how could he be trusted with thousands of lives? But mostly he worried about Merlin, and his own stupid, clumsy attempts to stop this very thing from happening. He wondered when he’d lost Merlin forever. He wondered how he could patch their friendship, if nothing else. He wondered why Merlin even stayed in Camelot when his resentment was palpable. Arthur would let him leave if he would just ask. Sometimes he wondered if it would be best to send Merlin away. It would free him to seek out Gwen and Lancelot if he wanted, or return to Ealdor, or see the world. But every time Arthur decided to do just that, his own selfishness would take precedence. _I’ll let him go if he requests it. Only if he requests it._

Arthur’s first nightly circuit always took him to his father’s tomb beneath the castle. He understood Uther better now than ever. Not because he could finally grasp the sheer stress and terror of being king—he was ten times the king Uther had ever been and had the kingdom to prove it. No, it was far more personal than that. He understood the deep-seated rage that could lead to the destruction of hundreds of innocents. He didn’t condone it. He would never fully forgive his father for what he’d done. But he sure as hell _understood_. That same rage lurked deep inside of him, desperate for an outlet, ready to overwhelm Arthur if he let it. But he had no target. Lancelot would have been the only acceptable target and he hadn’t been able to cut the man down.

The second circuit took him past Morgana’s chambers—sealed since her disappearance—and Ygraine’s newly opened rooms. Arthur had waited until after his own wedding to unseal the room and finally satisfy his curiosity. But the rooms hadn’t released any secrets to him, not without some sort of guide for all the objects. All of her remaining personal objects were pieces of a larger picture he couldn’t grasp. Separately, they were meaningless, and together…well, Arthur was sure there was meaning there, but he couldn’t see it. Arthur wasn’t a complete masochist, so he did avoid Gwen’s chambers. Still, the tour of Arthur’s failings was fairly complete. 

Arthur didn’t just suffer during his walks. He saw wonderful things, too. He knew how early the bakers got to work on the day’s bread, and if he timed it correctly, he would be just above the kitchens when the bread started to brown in the ovens. He’d seen men return to their families after long trips, and he’d seen lovers exchanging silent farewells just before the gray light of dawn. The servants who worked all night tending fires and cleaning the more high-traffic areas were beginning to know him, and he them, and he found their familiar faces comforting. Sometimes, they gave him absurd little gifts, and it wasn’t really appropriate, but it felt acceptable in the still, sleeping hours. It was months before Arthur learned that one of the servants, Berta, had started with the gifts because she worried about that he never smiled. 

He always spared her a smile when he passed her. She always returned it. Which made her his second closest friend after Leon. Arthur had once been surrounded by people who loved him, hadn’t he? Uther (despite his disappointment), Morgana (she’d still been ready to bring war to his doorstep), Gwen (couldn’t stand to let him touch her), Lancelot (claimed to honor him could never honor the vows that bound Gwent o him), and Merlin (who had apparently been rendered mute in his anger). Strange how easy it was to lose them all. 

Was it any wonder he couldn’t sleep? 

The second circuit did not include his old chambers. Occasionally, though, he’d be forced to add a third circuit to his nightly wandering. Those nights were always the worst, when the sky outside grew lighter and lighter, and his conviction that he’d never sleep again grew stronger and stronger. Then he would find the one bed in the castle that could always put him under. Two weeks after he learned Merlin was back, his mind was in such a tumult that it was either that or sneak something out of the cellar. 

Arthur collapsed into that bed gratefully, pretending Merlin would be joining him and letting that fantasy carry him to sleep. 

#

“Sire. Sire, it’s time to wake up.” Merlin leaned in close, taking advantage of Arthur’s sleeping state to touch his cheek and inhale the scent of his hair. He didn’t catch a hint of alcohol on his skin or breath, and his lips were so tempting, full and pink. What he wouldn’t give to crawl into that bed and curl into Arthur’s warm side, cocooned under the bedclothes, and content. “Sire?” 

Arthur’s eyes popped open inches from Merlin’s. They stared at each for a beat before Arthur jerked away. “What are you doing here?” 

Merlin caught his breath and straightened. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire, but there was a small panic this morning when nobody could find you where they expected you.” 

“You didn’t disturb me, you just startled me.” Arthur wiped his hand over his face.“How late is it?” 

Merlin fidgeted. “Pretty late.” 

“Was it that difficult to find me?” Arthur asked dryly. 

“No, but…I thought you could use the extra sleep. So I placed guards at the door and made sure nobody bothered you. I’m sorry if I…” 

“No, don’t apologize.” Arthur smiled a little. “Thank you. I did need the sleep.” 

“Arthur…what are you doing in here?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Do you regularly sleep in your old room?”

Arthur sighed. “Not regularly. Only when it’s really bad.” 

“When what is bad? The insomnia?” 

“I guess it wouldn’t do any good pretending I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Merlin shook his head and sat at the foot of the bed, one leg curled beneath him. It was a casual movement, one that he’d done a thousand times. One that Arthur hadn’t seen in a thousand years. “Considering that a blind man could see you haven’t been sleeping well, no, it wouldn’t. Some of the servants have said…” 

“What?” 

“That they’ve seen you at night. They said you walk around the castle like a ghost.” 

Arthur smiled thinly and shrugged. “Yeah, I like to go for walks when I can’t sleep.” 

“Every night,” Merlin said softly. 

Arthur shrugged again. “Sleeping draughts don’t work. Nothing works.” 

“Maybe…maybe I could help.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t want you to use magic on me.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Arthur stared blankly at him, like he couldn’t imagine what Merlin might offer him if it wasn’t related to magic. Merlin almost said _never mind_ , but Arthur was clearly suffering. If he could do anything to help ease that, he would. He’d even answer the questions hovering between them, or voice a few himself, if it would help. 

“You could tell me what’s on your mind,” Merlin prompted. “Maybe it’ll help if you talk about it.” 

“I don’t know if I can,” Arthur muttered, but Merlin took that as a positive sign. When Arthur truly didn’t want to talk about something, he had no qualms making it very clear. 

“Yes, you can. If it helps, you can pretend I’m somebody else.” 

Arthur seemed darkly amused by that. “Who?” 

“I don’t know. Anybody you want to talk to. Please, Arthur, you can’t go on like this. You’re killing yourself a little bit at a time. I’m…everybody is worried. Just tell me what I can do to help.” 

“I don’t know if you can,” Arthur said slowly. 

“Arthur…I know that I’m not the one you want here.” And he did know it, but something about speaking the words out loud hurt in a way merely thinking them never could. “And if I could change things for you, you know I would. But I _am_ here and I want to help you.” 

“Merlin. You’re the one I can’t let go of.”

“What?” 

“I’ve tried. I almost sent you away a dozen times.” 

“You want to send me away?” Merlin asked dully, his heart seizing briefly and then turning to stone. “If you want me to go…” 

“No. I don’t want that. Please, I don’t want that.” 

“Then why would you even think about it?” 

“Because…because I know that’s what you want. I know you love Lancelot.” 

“No. No I…” 

“You don’t have to deny it, Merlin,” Arthur said with sudden harshness. “I have eyes. Plus, you haven’t exactly made your feelings a secret. If I had known, I wouldn’t have…well, I don’t know what I would have done. Made a different decision.” 

“Arthur…I don’t know what you’re talking about. What decision?” 

“Lancelot and Gwen didn’t run away, Merlin. Gwen told me…they were still in love. And I thought if I sent them away, they could be happy together. Someplace far, far away. I thought I was making the best choice. But I didn’t _know_. I just thought…I didn’t know I was going to break your heart. Did you know all this? Is that why you stopped speaking to me?” 

Merlin’s mouth fell open, and he knew he was staring at Arthur like an idiot, but he couldn’t quite comprehend what Arthur was saying to him. “Oh, Arthur, no. No, that’s not what…” 

“Then why?” 

“Because I never stopped loving you for a second, Arthur. Not for a second. But I know…I’m not the one you want. I already lost you, and then I lost Lancelot, and I just couldn’t…I couldn’t put myself through that again. It hurts too much. I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger for you, but I just can’t be second place again.” 

“You were never second in my affections, Merlin. I should have never made you believe you were. But I thought…I thought a clean break would be better. I knew I would have to marry her and I thought it would make it easier.” 

Merlin stared at Arthur. This was what Lancelot had tried to tell him that night. This was what Gwen had told Lancelot. And he hadn’t heard it. Wouldn’t let himself hear it. He couldn’t even say Arthur had made the wrong choice. Theoretically, he could have been perfectly happy with Lancelot. Theoretically, they could have been good for each other. Theoretically, he could have had a life besides, beyond, Arthur. Theoretically. 

“You’re crying,” Arthur said, his knuckles brushing across Merlin’s cheek. 

Merlin sniffed and nodded. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t mind if you cry.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Arthur shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me you forgive me for this huge fucking mess.” 

Merlin leaned closer. “I forgive you, Arthur. And I never hated you. Please tell me you know that.” 

“I know,” Arthur said, cupping Merlin’s cheek and drawing him closer. Merlin’s face was warm and slick with tears when their lips touched, and he felt a similar dampness on Arthur’s face. Merlin didn’t part his lips immediately. The kiss was chaste and unhurried, and Merlin was content to enjoy the pressure of Arthur’s lips against his and the smell of sleep still clinging to him. 

Arthur moaned and sat up, pulling his knees beneath him. Merlin was forced to tilt his head back to keep the contact continuous, his hands closing around the loose material of Arthur’s shift. The tip of Arthur’s tongue slid across the seam of his mouth, but it was the press of Arthur’s body to his that finally prompted Merlin to open to the kiss. Arthur growled his satisfaction, his tongue sinking into Merlin’s willing mouth. Merlin skimmed his hand over Arthur’s collarbone and through the soft ends of his hair. Arthur’s arm went around Merlin’s shoulders, holding him in a tight embrace as he invaded Merlin’s mouth again and again. 

Merlin felt a stirring low in his abdomen, but it wasn’t arousal that fueled his response. It was the pure joy of touching Arthur again, and the fear that it would all be ripped from him again without warning. With the familiar bed beneath him and Arthur’s powerful body looming over him, it was all too easy to forget the years that separated from _then_ and _now_. Merlin’s face was still slick, but his eyes weren’t burning anymore. 

Arthur gradually broke the kiss. When he lifted his head, Merlin opened his eyes to see Arthur staring down at him. Merlin caught his breath, wondering if this had all been a dream, or if Arthur was going to tell him it was a mistake. His eyes were dark and gleaming, and Merlin felt like he was trying to look through Merlin, trying to stare right into his mind. He allowed the searching look to continue for several beats before leaning close and catching Arthur’s bottom lip with his teeth. He sucked on the hot skin until Arthur gently pushed him backwards. He followed Merlin down, his body half covering Merlin’s as their mouths came together again. 

Merlin could feel something else surging to life beneath his skin. Gold sparks rushed to his fingertips and his eyes. As the world took on a golden hue—Arthur glowing like he always did—Merlin closed his eyes and unconsciously turned his head away. It wasn’t quite enough to break the kiss, but Arthur felt it anyway. His fingers caught Merlin’s chin, and he held him in place as he explored the sorcerer’s mouth with renewed energy. 

Merlin wanted to stop Arthur and tell him that things had changed. That he didn’t have the self-control or the desire to hold his magic back when his body was unlocked with lips and fingers. But he was beyond speech. He couldn’t stop himself from drinking in as much as Arthur as he could. Energy jolted through him each time Arthur’s tongue slid against his, and his throat closed tighter and tighter. His body tightened beneath Arthur, as taut as a bowstring, and he bent his leg around Arthur’s, flexing to pull him closer. 

The pressure of Arthur’s mouth changed, growing more insistent. Merlin rolled his hips, grinding his cock against Arthur’s inner thigh. The pressure of the hard muscle against his throbbing erection made him shudder and push into him again. They rocked against each other, the rhythm changing with the pressure of their kisses. Merlin knew there was more—bare skin against bare skin, bodies interlocking, the taste of sweat, ragged broken gasps. He knew this, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just wanted to relearn the contours of Arthur’s mouth, the texture, and the taste. 

“I missed you, Merlin.” Arthur followed this declaration with another slow kiss, teasing Merlin’s tongue as his words echoed through him. “I missed you.” 

“Missed you, too,” Merlin murmured as Arthur dragged his mouth down the curve of Merlin’s neck. “Arthur…Arthur…” 

Arthur moved lower, leaving a hot train down Merlin’s chest, his mouth hard and damp through Merlin’s shirt. His hands were doing something, and Merlin realized that Arthur was taking care of the pesky clothes. Merlin arched his back, fingers clenching as he struggled to hold back his surging magic. He reached for Arthur, brushing his fingertips over his ear. Arthur jerked violently at the touch, and Merlin realized too late his magic had gotten away from him. 

“Arthur…” 

Arthur’s eyes were wide. “Was that your magic?” 

“Y-yes. It’s…it’s harder to control now. I haven’t…haven’t had to…” 

Arthur sat up, his mouth suddenly out of reach, his brow furrowed. “Does that always happen when you…” 

“Yes.” Merlin sat up and clutched Arthur’s arm, unwilling to let everything slip away again. Not without a fight. “But it doesn’t have to. I can control it with some more practice, it’s just that my concentration isn’t very good when you’re….” 

“Merlin.” Arthur gently pried Merlin off his arm and lowered him back to the bed. Merlin immediately grasped his shirt, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry.” 

“What?” Merlin whispered, trembling now. 

“I…was afraid of it. Of what you could do. I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.” 

“So you’re saying you don’t mind it?” 

“That’s what I’m saying.” 

Merlin touched his forehead to Arthur’s. “Don’t move.” 

He could tell the moment Arthur felt the first hand—the king’s eyes fluttered closed and his full mouth dropped open, his lower lip glistening. Merlin caught his breath at Arthur’s beauty, intoxicated by the sight of his pleasure as the magical hand slowly stroked up and down his cock. He added more hands gradually, touching Arthur everywhere from his brow to the back of his knees. Merlin felt every brush of contact, his flesh thrilling at the contrasting sensation as he caressed Arthur’s chest and his cock and the tender skin on the back of his thigh at the same time. He imagined himself undressing Arthur and three more invisible hands joined the fun. 

Arthur’s breath came faster and faster, and his cheeks flushed a deep red. Merlin finally got Arthur’s pants down and the shirt followed. Arthur dropped his head, gasping, hips jerking, muscles twitching with each slow caress. Merlin watched in wonder as Arthur whimpered and writhed, twisting into each touch, moving without thought. This was Arthur stripped down to nothing but his most base desires, and Merlin couldn’t look away. 

Arthur’s cock jutted against his stomach, the head a bright red, the tight skin already glistening with pre-come. It bobbed up and down as the invisible hand continued to stroke it—Merlin’s hand. He could feel the slick texture and the throbbing vein and the warm fluid. A small variation added to the spell, and he was licking that slick flesh, gathering the taste of Arthur’s arousal. Arthur thrust his hips forward like he wanted to drive his cock down Merlin’s throat, and Merlin guided the mouth lower to lock the lips around the shaft just below his head. 

Merlin took advantage of Arthur’s fresh distraction by catching his trembling lips, licking his mouth open and stealing his breath. He caught each ragged moan, swallowing them down as Arthur’s mouth turned pliant, molding over Merlin’s. Arthur’s bare skin slid over Merlin’s, thigh to thigh, chest against chest. Merlin could feel a thin sheen of sweat across his flexed muscles, and his skin tingled at every point they touched. 

“Trust me,” Merlin breathed. 

Arthur nodded and then cried out with shock as Merlin created a new magical hand. Unlike the others, this one belonged to Arthur, and it was poised to slide two long fingers into Merlin’s ass. Merlin squirmed, bending his knees to brace against the bed as the fingers slid inside of him. 

“You’re so tight,” Arthur gasped, the words muffled against Merlin’s mouth. Merlin clenched around the fingers long enough to catch his breath and then began to rock, fucking himself on the stiff fingers. 

Arthur’s kisses took a sharper edge and suddenly everything was faster. Merlin’s head was spinning, and he thought for a moment that he might lose control of all his magic as they both became overwhelmed by lust. Arthur was sliding against him, pawing at his skin, hands settling on his hips for a moment before he was moving again. Merlin squirmed, managing to wrap both legs around Arthur’s hips to align himself with Arthur’s cock. 

“I’m ready, Arthur.” Merlin didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. It was hoarse and low, full of longing. Like the weight of the words he never uttered had actually damaged his throat. “Please.” 

Arthur rose to his knees without unlocking Merlin’s legs from around his hips. Merlin flexed his knees, pulling himself closer to Arthur, letting his cock nudge against the stretched hole. The fingers were no longer inside of him, leaving him aching and empty and ready. Arthur slid his hands under Merlin’s shoulders and easily scooped his light frame off the mattress, holding him tight against his chest. He shuffled his knees across the bed until he had Merlin’s back against one of the sturdy posters. They both froze, eyes locked, and Merlin had no defenses. Arthur could look right into him and through him, witnessing the good and the bad. There was love there. Shining, golden, great love that Merlin could feel growing inside of him by the second. But there was darkness, too. Regret and a hurt that dug itself so deep, Merlin wouldn’t be able to simply forget it. 

Some change flickered over Arthur’s face. Something like a revelation. His eyes narrowed slightly and then his face shifted again, his eyes softening while his mouth set in determination. Merlin barely had the chance to brace himself before Arthur thrust forward, filling him in one smooth stroke, pushing Merlin up the poster. The smooth wood was like a cool hand against his skin, cooling him. Arthur’s chest, in contrast, was rough with hair and pliant and hot. Merlin gripped Arthur’s shoulders, holding him for balance as Arthur moved his hips in a slow, hard motion. 

Arthur was very much in control at first, but Merlin could feel him slipping and he knew it’d only be a short matter of time before the deliberate rhythm gave way to something erratic and fast. Merlin responded to each thrust, using his thighs to pull himself up so he could drive himself back onto Arthur’s cock. The burn of flesh sliding against tight flesh, the thrum of Arthur’s pulse beating in time with Merlin’s, the soft puff of air on Merlin’s mouth with each sharp gasp all sent sparks of pleasure through him. Sparks that mingled and caught together, flaring brighter until Merlin felt like his whole body was on fire. 

Merlin slid his hand over Arthur’s hip and around his ass, his fingers seeking Arthur’s hole. Arthur grunted at the intrusion, but his hips went back, like he was pressing against Merlin’s finger. Merlin pushed into Arthur’s channel with one finger, testing him, stunned by the heat, the tightness. If he went forward with his plan, neither one of them were going to last for very long. But the desire to be in and around Arthur was too much and Merlin didn’t just want to do it, he felt compelled to do it. 

“Arthur…going to fuck you…” 

“What? Magic?” 

Merlin nodded. 

Arthur nodded back. 

Gold bled into Arthur’s skin and hair, and then Arthur stiffened, his body going rigid as the conjured cock worked leisurely into Arthur’s too, too tight channel. At the first touch of his heat, Merlin’s vision brightened, and he had to use every trick of self-control he’d ever learned. Arthur remained still as Merlin claimed inch after inch, and he could tell by the strange echoing quality of their panting breaths that they were both hanging on by a thread. 

“Oh god…oh my god…oh god…Merlin…Merlin…” Arthur might have been shouting the words, but it was difficult to tell since Merlin could barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears and the constant hammering of his heart. As soon as he filled Arthur’s ass, he clutched his neck and pulled him into a hard kiss, simply knowing that he needed more.

They couldn’t work out a rhythm. They were both uncoordinated, graceless, rutting against each other for the friction. Arthur couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to focus on fucking Merlin or letting Merlin fuck him, and his body reflected that indecision, twisting and turning, buckling, stiffening, arching. Merlin felt like he was all arms and legs, clinging to Arthur, skin pressed to hot skin. Their mouths met in a clash of teeth, and Merlin tasted a hint of copper on his tongue. Arthur’s tongue slid over his lips, soothing the broken skin, and Merlin thought that, more than anything, might undo him. 

Arthur’s hips stuttered, and Merlin felt the swell of pleasure building between them until it finally erupted. Merlin slammed down and in, a scream wrenched from his throat as Arthur tightened around him, shook with the force of his orgasm, his cock tearing into Merlin’s ass one final time. They pumped into each other almost desperately, milking the pleasure for as long as they could. Even when they both stilled, they couldn’t quite stop moving, their frames shaking with involuntarily aftershocks, muscles twitching. 

They collapsed, Arthur falling to the bed without releasing Merlin. He was still buried in Merlin’s body, and Merlin closed his eyes and dropped his head, nuzzling against Arthur’s throat. 

“Why didn’t we do that before?” Arthur asked thickly. 

Merlin tried to smile, but his muscles were unresponsive, so he just wiggled closer and kissed the skin beneath Arthur’s ear. 

“Merlin.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I really am sorry. You’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt.” 

Merlin sighed. He wanted to tell Arthur it was fine, everything was fine now. But everything wouldn’t be fine until Merlin stopped fearing that this was nothing but a dream. He wanted to trust Arthur wholeheartedly, but he didn’t think he could give himself over like that again. Didn’t think he had enough faith left to love Arthur like that again. Perhaps Arthur could sense that, because the arm holding Merlin against him tightened. 

“Do you still love her?” Merlin asked, because he might as well know where he stood. 

“I don’t know. Probably. But I don’t miss her. I missed _you_. After you moved back into the castle, I…but even before that. Even before they left, I missed you. I used to try to think of ways to make you talk to me, but they rarely worked.” 

“No, they didn’t. It was just too hard.” 

“I know. But my father…you know what _he_ was willing to do for an heir. He always reminded me how important succession was. How critical it was for the kingdom to have an heir. He told me it was my greatest duty.” 

“I know all of that, Arthur. I never resented you for that. I could have managed, somehow, knowing that you were just marrying out of duty. It wouldn’t have been fun, but I could have lived with that. But thinking—knowing—that you had a choice and it was never going to be me…” 

“I’m sorry.” 

It wasn’t the first time Arthur said it, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it still felt good to hear the words and let them envelope him. 

“Gwen was sorry, too. In the end, when she told me everything, she felt so guilty about you. She felt like it was all her fault.” 

Merlin started, tried to sit up to study Arthur’s face, but couldn’t quite move. “What? Why?” 

“You were once her best friend, Merlin. And you couldn’t even talk to her, either. The silent treatment really does a number on people. Which is strange to me, because you’d think we’d welcome a break from your constant chatter.” 

“I hurt her, too.” The lost months and years suddenly weighed heavily on him, and he couldn’t remember why he’d been so angry, he couldn’t remember why he had been such a poor friend. It hadn’t been Gwen’s fault. She was the closest thing to blameless in the entire mess. Merlin wished he could see her one more time, if only for a moment, so he could apologize for that. “It was just so…difficult.” 

Arthur sighed. “I know, Merlin. I know.” 

#

The delegates sent to deliver a message to Morgana returned a fortnight later. They were bedraggled and exhausted, pale, covered in dirt. They didn’t look like they had once been outfitted by the King of Albion for a very important meeting with the kingdom’s most pressing enemy. They looked like a bunch of peasants. A sad, terrified group of peasants. 

“Your majesty, we bring word from the Lady Morgana.” 

“Speak.” 

The man who had been bold enough to address Arthur now looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. “Lady Morgana has made it clear that she does not wish for peace.” 

Arthur and Merlin both tensed and exchanged a quick glance. “Is she declaring war?” 

“Not as yet, your majesty. But the Druids…are no longer alone. They have aligned themselves with malcontents and traitors from across the kingdom. They are bringing more into their camps by the day. Their numbers are swelling, my lord.” 

Arthur took their full report and then dismissed them. He and Merlin sat in silence for a long time, their minds on the same issue, replaying the same words. War was inevitable now, and Arthur felt something heavy in his stomach. 

“We’re going to need Lancelot for this fight.” 

“He’s not coming back.” 

“Doesn’t mean we’re not going to need him.” 

“It means we’re going to have to find a way to win this without him.” 

Arthur sighed, knowing that he would have to stop seeing Morgana as his sister and his friend, and start viewing her as the adversary. All personal feelings would have to be removed, set aside, and he would have to lead his knights against an _enemy_. 

“Is this the great destiny you told me about?” Arthur asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’m beginning to think I don’t want it.” 

Merlin took his hand. “I’m going to move all my things to your room today.” 

“Good.” 

They sat in silence for a long time, contemplating destiny and everything it took from them. Everything it gave to them. Contemplating Morgana. Arthur was sure Merlin was letting his mind wander down the same paths of regret, reconsidering every decision, wondering which one led them to this point, to the brink of war. Wondering if Morgana was truly mad. 

“I’m glad Gwen isn’t here to see this,” Arthur finally said. 

Merlin grunted in agreement. His hand was still locked around Arthur’s. It felt very good and very solid. Merlin could have left him to join with Morgana, or to follow Gwen and Lancelot, or to raise his own army. Arthur had hurt him that deeply. But even when Arthur had unforgivably sinned against him, Merlin’s loyalty never once faltered. 

“I guess we better get you to fighting shape.” 

“Hey,” Arthur protested, roused from his melancholy. “I’ve never been more fit.” 

Merlin arched his brow. “Even you aren’t that delusional.” 

“I’m going to start training on a daily basis. The knights will need my leadership to prepare.” 

Merlin nodded. “And go on a diet.” 

“That insult only works when you don’t spend all morning yelling at me because I’ve lost too much weight,” Arthur pointed out. 

“I meant a diet of hearty meat and bread.” Merlin blinked at him innocently. “What did you think I meant?” 

“You’re going to train too, you know.” 

“I’ll research helpful spells, if that’s what you mean.” 

“I know for a fact you haven’t kept up with your weapons training.” 

“I’m the most powerful sorcerer in Albion. I don’t need weapons training.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” Arthur argued. “What if you can’t use your magic?” 

“If I’m ever in that situation, a sword probably won’t be of any help.” 

“You’re going to start training and that’s the end of it.” 

Merlin’s lips twitched. “As you wish, my lord.” 

Arthur looked away to hide his own smile. He missed Merlin. He missed _this_. He should have never let Merlin get so far away from him. He would never let it happen again. Whether they had days or years ahead of them, Arthur wasn’t going to let Merlin go. He would never give Merlin a reason to leave him again.


End file.
